“Poetry is painting that speaks.”—Simonides (6th-5th century, B.C.)

I have never shared my poetry before because I have always felt that—like my art—I can’t always tell when it’s good or bad.  According to a past art prof, all artists are generally unable to tell whether their work is good or bad.  I also believe that sharing unpublished poetry is like masturbation.  It can feel good but most people probably don’t want to see it.  That’s why I’m only going to share previously-published poetry here.  (This way, everything you read was at least good enough for someone to actually publish it.)

As my old friends can attest, I travelled to several different countries as a young man.  I won’t go into too many details but suffice it to say this poem was inspired by events that occurred while I was visiting other countries.  I was young and dumb (enough) and full of . . . well, you get the point.

His Eyes

In a distant land

Years ago

There was a woman

He remembers her not well

She stole part of his soul

And his innocence as well

Time has passed

There never was any love

He’s long since returned

With a hurt that can’t be healed

She’s also paid for her sin

Nothing remains

But painful memories

And perhaps

A child

Somewhere

Whose eyes are those of his

—W. Scott Phoenix

(1981)

My promiscuity in college is what led to the conversations that led to the writing of this poem now that I think of it.  Still, it’s unsettling to get pictures from someone you shared a brief moment a couple years ago only to notice that the children in the picture look nothing like the significant other.  Perhaps we all need to be a bit more careful a lot sooner in our lives.

“Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.”—Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)     

Image via Wikipedia