I’ve begun to notice that my poems are getting longer whereas my first poems were very short. It’s not uncommon for me to take up more than a page with my poems now.
I’ve also noticed that there’s much less of a sense of “trying too hard” in my work now. many of my first poems sounded like someone trying so, so hard to sound smart or interesting. My poems now have a much more narrative bend (lately) and they just seem to breathe more easily.
So I’m interested to know…how has your poetic voice changed?
My style/voice had change a lot over the years. Started with poems that rhyme, then spoken word ,then haikus, arostics, limericks and now, poems are a lot shorter, yet straight to the point. My poetry style hasn't change too much ,since I mainly write to process experience. Can be double edge sword. On one hand, does make me understand what I am going through ,however, because I base my poetry from music I've listen too, there's a sense that my poetry hasn't evolve at all. Guess I can say, while my voice hasn't change, overall, style has over the years in terms of what form the poem was taking place in.
Sounds like you're becoming more assured by your work, which is excellent! The best thing about writing lengthier poems is that you can snip them into two separate ones if you don't want it that long. I've seen this done before where someone writes a part one and two of a narrative piece. I'll post these two poems, and we will see if you can tell which one is my old style of writing and which one is my present writing style.
Shadow Eyes
Surround yourself in abysmal darkness
Now imagine if you would
A sensation full of miraculous madness
Where reality twists where you stood
Like a lit fire upon your feet
Walls surround you in deceit
No longer can you escape
This eternal state of fate
Spin in your shoes and land
Upon the ledge of stone
In the precipice
Of ruthlessness
To My "B" Loved
Busy bees float in swarms
around this globe up above.
Spiraling in perfect circles collecting
dreams like honey in a jar.
Such are the gardeners
of dandelion fields in labor of love.
Rushing from the buzz of safety
and into those wilds afar.
These boulevardier bees
dressed to kill with much assuridty
For death is only as far
as the distant summer tree.
It’s true the bark is more
bitter with every bite
Save for the golden batch
made merry at midnight.
Dance you busy bees dance
dance those bluebells away.