A Nightingale In A Golden Cage

So....Professor Clover made an extra credit assignment: write a serious villanelle and you'll get five points. So I wrote three. And I don't know which one I like.

Also, I realize suddenly just how at ease with yourself you have to be when you're a poet. Imagine: Elizabeth Bishop was a lesbian at a time when homosexuality was not very well accepted and wrote a poem after her lover killed herself. She had to be completely at ease with what she was writing because everyone who read her poetry would eventually know. So, knowing this, I feel even more nervous about turning in one of my poems because I don't like my personal writing being judged. And that's what's going to happen. I'll turn it in and someone will decide if my poem is serious or not. And if they understand what I'm talking about (and they probably will, since they're smarter than I am) then they'll know about a part of me that I don't readily and easily reveal to people.

Maybe I should just keep the three I've already written to myself and write something less......"personal."

But that's not the point. I want your opinions. And I know my work is probably complete and utter rubbish compared to the great poets of time, but, hey, no one said I had to be the next T.S. Eliot, now, did they?

Anywho. Here's the first one I wrote. Now, keep in mind, I usually am more visual and creative with words when I'm depressed. I don't know why, but that's just how I write my poetry. I can only seem to write it when I'm low. Well, actually, I don't know. I feel like I write better when I'm depressed. Poetry, that is. Who knows. Maybe I'll try to write when I'm happier and see what the difference is.

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But this is a low tide.
I cannot feel the way
For there is nowhere to hide.

When you asked, I lied
Prayed my eyes would convey
That this is a low tide.

"Please ask!" my soul cried
But the waves rolled away
And there is nowhere to hide.

And I wanted to confide
"So talk to me," you say
But this is a low tide.

And if asked again, I'd
Confess 'til end of day
That I've nowhere to hide.

Sans Moon, I cannot abide
The burning, scorching ray
For this is a low tide
And there's nowhere to hide.