From the Poet's Own Voice
Poetry is a form of writing that is best heard from the poet's own voice. By hearing what a poet says and how he/she says it, we are able to grasp the essence of the poem.
This week, I taught myself how to create audio recordings of my poems. I am so excited, because now I can actually share them with my family and friends as if I were sitting with them. What fun!
In introducing my first recording, it seems appropriate to begin with The Oak and the Maple. This is a love poem of sorts, speaking of how some people come into our lives for a short time, but leave their mark on our souls forever.
Listen to The Oak and the Maple here.
And, for those who wish to read along --
THE OAK AND THE MAPLE
This week, I taught myself how to create audio recordings of my poems. I am so excited, because now I can actually share them with my family and friends as if I were sitting with them. What fun!
In introducing my first recording, it seems appropriate to begin with The Oak and the Maple. This is a love poem of sorts, speaking of how some people come into our lives for a short time, but leave their mark on our souls forever.
Listen to The Oak and the Maple here.
And, for those who wish to read along --
THE OAK AND THE MAPLE
Once upon a time, two trees grew
side-by-side in the forest.
On one, there grew a sturdy oak
leaf
and on the other a delicate maple.
As spring warmed to Summer, they
grew
stretching themselves out to meet
the other.
By Summer’s end, the edges of
their being
gently kissed, as they danced
to the cool breeze that whispered
Autumn’s arrival.
Autumn strode through the wood
painting each tree and bush.
The sturdy oak leaf wore a coat of
lion’s mane brown
and the maple a shimmering gown of
sunset red.
From their own branches, the two
admired each other.
They hoped for another playful
wind to come
so that they may dance together
once more.
But, the winds that came were
fierce and cruel.
The maple leaf was soon ripped
from her home.
The oak could only stand watch
as she tumbled to the ground.
Thinking he had lost her forever,
he grew sad, hanging wearily from
his branch.
Winter came at last, bringing with
her a fluffy, white, snow quilt.
As she quietly passed through the
forest,
she gently plucked the
brokenhearted oak from his home.
With great tenderness,
she laid him on the moss below.
As the snow fell about him,
the oak felt a familiar touch.
There beside him lay the maple
leaf
still dressed in her sunset gown.
Their love bound them together
As they returned to That, which
gave them life.
by
Linda M. Rhinehart Neas © York, ME 1992
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