"From the darkness, sleeping light." Formerly luminus dormiens. Lux pacis, light of peace.

Quote: "Sometimes I think the surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe is that none of it has tried to contact us." --Bill Watterson, cartoonist, Calvin and Hobbes


I am not a good poetry writer, I guess I'm always confined to the idea that I must write in structured verse, with potential rhyming at the end of each line. I guess to my perception, poets who can do that, along with being able to provide deep meanings in those very poems are excellent writers.

Here's a structured poem, "haiku."

this here is my school
there, the university
my home's right between

Here's something unstructured, "free verse."

Everyday, I commute to this place
Which teaches me, prepares me for working,
For a career that I too must commute to
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth
What provides the variation,
The unpredictability to the routine?
What else but social life? What else, indeed?
But this place is taking up my time,
Being a place for commuting, I cannot live there
People cannot. Most of them hail from home,
Apartment, a separate residence far from this place.
I must look for college residency, learn to do laundry
All by myself, with help of friends.

I know both of these poems are uninspired. They're just talking about a dull topic. Actually, a great poet can make great things out of everyday life. Maybe I should just stick with prose. Every time I try to write, I always get old poems stuck in eternal loops in my brain: Shakespeare, Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, etc. I remember bits of lines: "For whose dear love, I rise and fall." "Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me." "Whose woods these are, I think I know." "Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove"

When full eclipse of powers
Do engage in making wrong
And overthrows in short hours
Progress made in so long.

As these flowers which weeks may show
To grow sweet petals that will bloom
May with a shear alter the way they grow
And so they wilt, as we to what may come.


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