In the manner of Keats, Shelley, and Byron. . .

I am not a fan of poetry; I hate most of it, in fact. Some of it however is good, but those poems are quite rare. With that said, I had to write a lyrical poem for my British Literature class. I thought it turned out badly--not quite living up to the master plan in my mind--but it was well recieved in my peer review group even though it has an extremely lose form. So, I will post it here for your reading pleasure. If you are a poetry critic, please be kind; I'm a little embarrassed.

Lamentation of Silence

Mute are the muses that guide me
in the presence of these sirens
that invade my reverie
haunting me always
with their melodies
that whisper
in the wind and down the byways
like something from a dream
remembered and forgotten.

I pray you, Speak! Feel my plight
ere this holy specter vanishes
from the pleasure of my sight
but not my soul
where her eternal absence
will wroth and roil
like a tangle of serpents
flailing and striking
until all is still.

Come muse, Speak!
Curse these words that choke
Curse this love that binds
my thoughts and words
to formless theory and bitter hope
Speak, and grant me sanity
let heart and mind end this violence
and come together
to end this
the utterance of my silence.

~Joseph Devenport