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Poetry Magnum Opus

Belles Lettres


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Those words chosen, that when arranged to convey the mood, emotion, setting and intention of the author, take on a presence of their own. They are words that live and live again each time they are read. Their construction and juxtaposition often bring about a lyrical quality, a Gestalt result that is so much more than simply a summation of the piece, or the passing on of information.


Does the work put you there in the action? Do you sense the surroundings and their framing relationship to the events? Do you react physically to the tension, the love, the anger, the danger, hilarity, or the pangs of disaster? Do you identify with the characters to the point of deep empathy? Do you sometimes fear to turn the next page? Do you rejoice with the spontaneous discovery of the unique attraction of lovers? Do you sometimes gasp or laugh out loud or cry? Do you want the story to never end?


“I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me.”

Ralph Ellison


“Nick looked at the burned-over stretch of hillside, where he had expected to find the scattered houses of the town and then walked down the railroad track to the bridge over the river. The river was there. It swirled against the log spiles of the bridge. Nick looked down into the clear brown water, colored from the pebbly bottom, and watched the trout keeping themselves steady in the current with wavering fins. As he watched them they changed their positions by quick angles, only to hold steady in the fast water again. Nick watched them for a long time.”

Ernest Hemingway


“The writer has a way with words, and those words equally have a way with the Writer. Words offer more than expression to the Writer; they are his tools, yet they absorb him. Floating in softly at first, they become entrapped in his mind, sometimes banging forcefully against barriers for release.”

Gail Elizabeth Price


Enduring works are those that mirror life with reflections that become more real and solid with each new reader.


fdharden - 2008

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Larsen M. Callirhoe

it is amazing how words mirror life and images we visualise become life and we become the words we use in turn. life has a way of making art become the reality we not only need but what truly is poetry in motion itself. words sum up everything yet sometimes is everything presice and still not enough.

Larsen M. Callirhoe

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I believe all of life is art if we see it as such. Sometimes, at the worst times, that seems impossible, but all of it is life. Good observations, Lash.

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Oh, how much fine writing can move a person, Franklin! I'm somewhat of a railfan; I like the freight trains of the diesel era, and I have lots of picture books on various railroads. In addition to the great photography, these books will usually have terrific descriptions of the activity taking place in the pictures, much of it bordering on poetic prose. An excerpt from the final pages of RUTLAND In Color (Morning Sun Books) by author Philip R. Jordan:


"The Rutland has been gone some four decades now. In its absence a new rail transportation system has taken root and grown to comprehensively serve Vermont's industries and businesses, many of which were not yet in existence when the Rutland Railway stopped running ...


"However, there are parts, deserted sections of the old Rutland, where the rails have given way to bike paths, cow pastures and highways. These are the desolate places where, on a Winter's day, a recent snowfall can handily disguise the empty roadbed stripped of rails, ties, and ballast. One can readily imagine the rails still in place, the wires overhead humming with telephone traffic ... The causeways through the islands are among these now empty locales, ones where Winter holds a frosty grip each year and reluctantly gives it up each spring. Snow whipped up off the frozen lake could easily mask the approach of an oncoming train. Ghosting across the causeway like some wraithlike form intent on reaching its foreign destination, it would leave only clear rail behind it and a trail of smoke to mark its passing, an image indelible to a photographer's memory, and perhaps ours, too, long after a picture has been taken so many years ago."

Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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Geez, and here am I remembering the guy shoveling coal into the furnace and the haunting whistle at night. Alas, I shall never get to drive one.

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