This is a guest post, a courtesy of a fellow poet and writer Dalia Jayes where she shares her personal experience on writing poetry:
I love creating things and I use lots of different ways apart from poetry to accomplish this. There is an incredible feeling to taking threads of ideas and putting them together to form something new. For me the writing of poetry is minimalistic. By the right choice of words I can create a story in multiple layers. The added almost musical rhythm of the lines adds to the expression of the tale. I find writing poetry therapeutic. I work through things I experience, hear and see. I like that the writing is relatively fast and I relate to it as a quick fix. The poem is finished and I can move on.
My earliest memory of a well-known poem was the Pied Piper. It really captured my imagination. My favourite poets are Emily Dickinson and Dr. Seuss.
Some of my favourite poems:
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The Healing Tree by Dalia Sophia Jayes
The many roots of this tree,
Twisted, exposed for all to see.
Its trunk thick and old, was,
Magnificent, perhaps because,
It held secrets, mystery, more,
This was but the central core,
For magic worlds hidden between,
The leaves, which could be seen,
And memories near and long ago,
Perched like blossom high and low,
But where was this tree firmly stood,
Not in a forest, or an enchanted wood,
It was there for the sick and the aged,
A remedy for feeling and being caged,
To where they could run and disappear,
Far, far away, but still quite near,
Escaping from the reality of the now,
Into golden moments beyond each bough.
Looking For The Sun by Dalia Sophia Jayes
The sun shone, beating down hot,
Sea, ice cream, summer whatnot,
Iced coffees, suntan cream smell,
Chat, quiet and laughter as well,
Jump into the bubble, feel real good,
Closed eyes, rose glasses understood,
Outside bubble sun is blotted black,
Cycle of murdering innocents back,
New orphans, transformed in a blink,
Witnesses of bloodshed, what to think,
Knives, stones, rocks and the gun,
Vengeance, martyrs, wars to be won,
Blood staining earth, spitting at peace,
Spurred on, encouraged, lost is cease,
And the heat, boiling does not stop,
Too hot, bursting bubble with a pop,
Outside tears, screams, horror, abound,
Replacing summer’s smile and sound,
And the sun refuses to shine just now,
One hopes it hasn’t forgotten how.
Weddings by Dalia Sophia Jayes
She sat there, her mother, sister, grandmothers by her side,
A vision in white, glowing and smiling, she sat there the bride,
And above and around her was a cloud of emotion, charged,
As the family seemingly both contracted and enlarged,
Only women framed her, singing songs in girly tones,
Whilst others tapped to the music into their phones,
And we waited and waited barely able to breathe for,
The moment she would go through an invisible door,
When she would pass from her parents to,
A family that she was now forming, brand new,
The men were coming, I could hear their male voice,
Headed by the groom, her man, her choice,
The clothed wedding players were naked now,
Their feelings etched on their faces and how,
Her father overcome, a silent sob in his eyes,
His little girl grown up taking him by surprise,
Her husband to be had a look of love, so pure,
Proving to her unquestionably this would endure,
It was such a private moment when their eyes met,
It felt wrong to look, to be a voyeur of this, yet,
We all gazed, watching as she walked over to him,
Even as she still sat there, veiled, pretty and slim,
The moment had passed, the transition done, a leap,
Tears gone, replaced with smiles etched so very deep,
And mother, father took hold of her hands and led,
She, forever their daughter, to her groom to be wed.
Conscription by Dalia Sophia Jayes
Today came as we knew it would,
When there was no longer control over the words,
And the poem lost its rhyme,
And the vowel was marched away,
Leaving an unfamiliar empty sound.
Dalia Jayes grew up in London and after university went to Israel to study for a doctorate in medicinal chemistry. Many years later she is still in Israel with her husband and children. She lives in Modi’in, which although a relatively new city, is steeped in history, especially relating to Hanukah, which took place in this region. She consider herself lucky to be able to use writing in her profession, a patent attorney, although the language is limited. In spare time she writes poems as well as fiction. She has also written a fantasy book for teenagers, which is yet to be published. You can find her writings at https://whileiwalk.wordpress.com
Business in Rhyme 