|Posted on April 7, 2014 at 6:05 AM||comments (0)|
In most affairs of State I find
That states are libertine:
They liberate unwelcome minds
With well-placed Guillotine.
|Posted on April 6, 2014 at 11:50 AM||comments (0)|
Writing talent drought!
Verse rationed commodity:
Be patriot, conserve.
|Posted on April 5, 2014 at 10:15 AM||comments (0)|
Once upon a time, there lived a melancholy Poet upon a hill. The Poet was sad because she knew not the face of true art, and could not discover the answer no matter how she tried.
One day, the Poet came upon a Songbird in her musings, and decided to consult the Songbird for advice.
"Pray tell, sir Songbird," she asked with sorrow, "What makes a true poem?"
"Ah! that is a good question," the Songbird sang. "A poem is defined by meter and rhyme, musical as the belltower chimes. It is written by iamb and trochee, by dactyl and anapaest; in couplets, in tercets and in quatrains. It sings of love and loss, of flowers, and of the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets."
"Thank you most graciously, sir Songbird," said the Poet, and went on her way. Upon the road she began to compose a lyrical sonnet, just as the Songbird had described. She reached into her heart and drew out majestic emotions, and painted her verse with all the colors of the sunset. But when she had completed the poem, she found she had no voice to sing; and she threw it away.
On the next day, the Poet came upon a Raccoon in her musings, and decided to consult the Raccoon for advice.
"Pray tell, sir Raccoon," she asked with sorrow, "What makes a true poem?"
"Ah! that is a good question," the Raccoon quipped. "A poem is unafraid to speak the ugly truth. It shines light on the dirty and dingy, with neither rhyme nor reason, for what in life has rhyme or reason? Nay, none: the poem is scruffy and unhinged and undone, and it lays bare the darkness of our souls."
"Thank you most graciously, sir Raccoon," said the Poet, and went on her way. Upon the road she began to compose darkness without structure, just as the Raccoon had described. She broke her heart to arrange the fallen pieces, and walked among the sick to scribe their despair. But when she had completed the poem, she could not find herself in the darkness; and again she threw it away.
On the third day, the Poet came upon a Typist in her musings, and decided to consult the Typist for advice.
"Pray tell, sir Typist," she asked with sorrow, "What makes a true poem?"
"Ah! that is a good question," the Typist put forth. "A poem comes in all shapes and sizes, in bold and italic and under-line and over-line. They are serifed and sometimes not, superscript and sometimes subscript. But know this: all poems are tall, for their lines are broken all up and down in whitespace."
"Thank you most graciously, sir Typist," said the Poet, and went on her way. Upon the road she began to compose something tall and broken up, just as the Typist had described. She chopped her words to bits and stacked them all in a tower, and from the emptiness all around built it walls. But when she had completed the poem, all the whitespace blinded her vision; and once more she threw it away.
On the fourth day it rained, and the Poet shut herself up in her rooms. She gazed into the pooling rainwater and was sad, because she knew not the face of true art, and could not discover the answer no matter how she tried.
"Pray tell, someone, anyone," she asked with sorrow, "What makes a true poem?"
There was no reply but the patter of rain.
So the Poet began to compose something amorphous and without form, something that needed no words to describe. She found all her old poems and pressed them for ink, and wrote with the memory of a hundred failures; and her tears fell and saturated the paper, just as the rain fell and saturated the earth. And when she had stained the whole paper black with ink, she took white ink and began again.
The rain did not let up for some weeks. It was heavy rain, which tossed trees and churned rivers and washed away dandelions in the wind; and for the whole length of it, the Poet never left her rooms at all.
On the first day after the rain had stopped, the Songbird, Raccoon and Typist decided to pay the melancholy Poet a visit.
"Perhaps the Poet has written something I can sing," thought the Songbird.
"Perhaps the Poet has written something that makes me feel," thought the Raccoon.
"Perhaps the Poet has written something I can publish," thought the Typist.
So the Songbird, Raccoon and Typist arranged themselves before the Poet's door, at which they knocked. When there was no reply, they began to worry.
"What if the Poet has lost her voice?" said the Songbird.
"What if the Poet has died of sorrow?" said the Raccoon.
The Typist decided to enter the Poet's rooms, and the Songbird and Raccoon likewise. But when they searched her musty house, there was no trace of the melancholy Poet to be found. There was only an inkpen on a table with a nib that had been worn away, and next to it, a piece of paper that had been covered with words.
"Did the Poet write this?" wondered the Typist, and read the paper aloud.
"What is this?" asked the Songbird. "It has no rhyme."
"And it has not a trace of dirt or grime," noted the Raccoon.
"And there is no whitespace to be found," said the Typist, "and the line breaks are few."
But there was something else about that small piece of paper, which had been soaked with the Poet's tears. It told the tale of her joy and sorrow, and in those words you could almost see the outline of her soul. It was very beautiful.
"This is no poem," agreed the Songbird, Raccoon, and Typist, "but how poetic it is!"
|Posted on April 4, 2014 at 6:05 AM||comments (0)|
Begin the procedure.
Hammers and calipers split land and sea,
Each raw gash torn open by callow claw
For blood. The needles pound,
Piston, drink ancient gallons
From veins unseen: in the black,
The humours echo dead vitae still.
Stainless arms jerk and couple,
Each motor screeching mating cries:
The blood that burns,
Transfused to voracious beasts
That whirr and turn.
Listen to the city's heartbeat, where
The aorta is tar and pitch:
The dinosaurs' screams still last.
To put today on life support
We burn the past.
|Posted on April 3, 2014 at 8:45 AM||comments (0)|
I see you, lighthouse fighting shore,
You stubborn young petulant flame!
How thoughtless your defiant roar –
How dare you thrash untamed!
There is no self in senseless rage
No sense in acts of treason!
What logic could assail the heart
Of one so closed to reason?
What would you know of hearts? You who broke
Yours up and sold it in parts?
My rage is the seal of my zeal
In fire the pyre that threatens to
Burn a hole
In my soul
Nothing can hold it!
Just try and stop it!
What hungry flame
Could fit in a battle of wits?
It's just not the same! You speak of the mind
Ha! In a real fight
Foresight will only make you
I see that you have yet to learn
From each mistake upon mistake –
Each time your inner fire burns
A cataclysm in your wake!
This beacon that you stoke with ash
And such untold destruction bleak:
Do you delight in my torment?
Is it attention that you seek?
Like I would deign to draw
Someone like you! Your soulless cool
Boils my blood raw! The slightest thought
Drives my heart a seething hot!
I can't breathe!
And I can't leave your cursed trail
For I must catch you when you fail!
Why does such passion blind your eyes?
If only you would think–
No! You speak lies!
But we are preordained
To clash eternally in kind
And every time you haunt my mind
Until our fates entwine again.
I wish that I could be free
But this impulse
This force of will just binds me!
My soul is burning thunder!
But why can you not just surrender?
I hate how you ever oppose
As if the blood in your veins all
You couldn't feel
The pounding heat of all that is real –
The surge, the aching urge
When you come near, my feelings seared
That my heart sings aloud.
I do. It clouds all that I see
This mental maelstrom that you bare –
Your blazing spirit touches me.
I– I– I– I don't want your care!
Why must you set my heart on fire?
Why must you be my mind's desire?
I hate how fate ties us together
In life and death –
– Come hell or high weather
Though times are dark.
Why do you ignite my spark?
There's nothing at all romantic in this
This conversation never happened.