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The Music of September

Sabtu, 19 Juli 2008
Forgotten Poems by EKPoet







































ABOUT
EKPOET
EKPoet is a habitual writer for many many years now. He started writing stories when he was ten, and then became interested in poetry in high school and college. He studied english poetry in college, has a degree in english, and did his thesis on comparing the poetry of W B Yeats and Seaumus Heaney. He has been writing poetry for 27 years, has completed two books, which are currently being posted, and is writing short stories currently. He loves music, art, travel, and literature and always can be found poolside with a book of some kind or other.



Inside, the forgotten poems,
The poems written down on blank pieces of paper,
Crumpled up, and thrown into waste baskets,
The poems written on the dusty desktops
In the silence, are folded up and filed away
Never to be read out loud.

Outside, the people I have always wanted to meet
Walk, matter of fact, to the places I have always wanted to go;
The coffee shops with their little conversations,
The trains on their way to distant cities,
The offices of skyscrapers far above the clouds,
Restaurants, movie theatres, quiet parks
Where lovers steal kisses on the hidden benches.

I, who never seem quite able to shake someone's hand,
To say something remarkable out loud,
Write down the things I want to tell them
On little pieces of paper
And paper the window with them:
Vignettes and scenes taking place on the streets,
private conversations,
Expressions of remorse,
Declarations of love
In all their myriad, brilliant colors
Printed out in clear, bold print
In the eloquent language of poets,
One beside the other
Until the bright pane of glass is gone
And the vision of the outside world
Dissapears.

Of course, nobody down there notices,
Completey absorbed in their own, live conversations
They don't see any of my silent messages.
The doorbell downstairs does not ring.
The mailbox is empty of letters.

In the dark, I turn on a light.
The light lights up my desk,
And all the blank, white pieces of paper
Yet to be composed into forgotten poems.

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