Love Poetry

I love poetry. Ever since I was a teenager in love, an unrequited love that is, I wrote poetry. My love for reading it occurred exactly at the same moment in time.

I know this is a common story amongst many teenage writers, but this was over ten years ago. Many things change in this world, but teenage unrequited love never does.

This Squidoo lens is about my love of poetry along with love short poetry in general. Thanks for visiting. Please remember to rate, share, and comment.

Poetry: the everlasting beauty

When I first began writing poetry, I was young and generally had no idea what I was doing other than what I thought was poetry. I had only just begun reading the likes of Edgar Allan Poe and John Keats. What did I really know about literature? Not much, of course.

As time went on I continued reading and writing this perfect literature. My love never changed. It grew and grew.

I still love poetry today, perhaps even more than I ever had in the past. The one difference, however, is I do not write nearly as often. I, like everyone, have gotten older. And as we grew older, our responsibilities grow larger. Poetry has taken a backseat to working, cooking, and other daily needs.

My favorite poem

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise,

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints -I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! -and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

by Elizabeth Browning

For when I'm on the go

One reason poetry is so amazing is that so much meaning and emotion can be opened up in only a few words. Haiku is one example of this, but even without limiting syllables, there are many great poems.

Short and sweet

old pond . . .

a frog leaps in

water’s sound

by Bashō