Biography of Frank Lewis
My knowledge of poetry is shallow, my experience mostly pertaining to the work of Poe, whom I respect immensely. My work itself, though inspired by no specific writer, is extracted from my notions of beauty, which is in turn inspired by the ideals outlined in Poe's 'Philosophy of Composition.' I find the mere contemplation of the human struggle to be fascinating, and in many cases, moving to tears. I am captivated by dreams, desires, and tragic introspection. The macabre, although often accused of being unsatisfying and even taboo, is the second purist form of beauty, only to true love; however, such a subject is too inexplicable to be encapsulated sufficiently in mere words. My poetic style primarily is void of rhythm and rhyme, as I have not yet grown to utilize them effectively. Rather, I enjoy experimentation with both structure and technique, striving, to the best of my feeble abilities, for each of my poems to be a varied, original experience that draws the reader closer to a comprehension of beauty.
Frank Lewis Poems
Twelve Fields Of Ash
In the town by the Rocky Mountains, the Fire burned at midnight. Those homes in wonder, gazing at the Knight, Now lie as Twelve Fields of Ash. Where there were walls, rise walls of fire;
King I’m not, but a baby trapped inside my Crib I clutch, tis the only thing within my Reach I must, not for milk but for my Sleep I plead, to catch just one glimpse of my
Brothers Heart & Hat, regarding tea: (Hat) Heart, the taste of our tea of you and me- Is it not delicious, delightful, delectable? (Heart) My tea is malicious, foul, inedible.
King I’m not, but a baby trapped inside my
Crib I clutch, tis the only thing within my
Reach I must, not for milk but for my
Sleep I plead, to catch just one glimpse of my
World I need, to rule the land where I am