I guess I try to explore things which are not easily graspable with words.
I try to write pieces which evoke 'something'. I try to write pieces that I myself would like to read. Ultimately, I try to write away from the well worn path that poetry usually treads.
My writing is first draft, and I hope I am improving.
Some day, I might write the piece which truely defines that ... more »
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Christopher Withers Poems
vision stunted by past deeds leading to my current place, childhood face: disconnected, now adrift on stagnant lake.
Life is fake, life is real,
frozen moments and you
a surge of grief washes my senses, seeming to ride the dim, blue, evening light, and suddenly i realise, that
willingly, each night we fade, drifting out from structured thought into yawning oblivious depth: willingly, our greatest fears embraced
Love entangles semantics
what is Love? indeed, what is it to Love? how can one glance truth, fight through the ingrained gloss
in lieu of gifts and flowered word, in my stead i'll place your care. at each dawn i'll hold you near, talking of our love so clear.
bound, the flesh
'see', I yell, to the gathering crowd, but rather than 'seeing', each eye, slack jaw and gaping mouth
each babe wakes to earths new dawn, mistaking new for what is worn, futures cast before they're born.
forever morning hue
carried, on morning hue, i find an almost timeless clarity, so, as i sit here by myself looking out (but, in truth, looking in) ,
moments of dawn
the sun, in harsh stroke, cuts a sharp line, breaking the dawn leached wall. your hand, caught in this sudden brilliance
Intentions and Preconceptions
intentions, they sometimes get the better of me, such that my automatic, lie-down attitude, sees.
screaming bombs fall from the sky darkness washes out the eye hidden people start to die
questions on death
a lack of memories prior to birth instils not dread or fear, so why, i question does the thought of similar
the shimmering sun's eternal wake
the sun becomes an incandescent sword, a shimmering arc, drawn across the rivers surface, as laughter rings out - scaring into flight,
Comments about Christopher Withers
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
vision stunted by past deeds
leading to my current place,
childhood face: disconnected,
now adrift on stagnant lake.
cynicism scrawls the map
leading to my resting place,
a symptom of a drying mind,
what once was fluid, now is blind.
each denial of childhood dream
fractures now my world it seems.
mothers tears dried in her grave,
childhood view: never saved.