Poetry tears out your soul from
Its corporeal, cavernous dark
So that you might look upon it
With both a sense of disgust and wonder,
That beautiful confliction.
What becomes of the simply content poet?
Neither simmering in a stew of love
Nor slipping down its brick wall by the fingernails,
That slow and painful enterprise.
What is to become of my philosophical images
When I no longer feel as though my body
Is being torn apart from the inside
By a daemon of all my limitations?
If I am in the in between,
Not in pain nor in ecstasy,
Savoring my quiet appreciation of dawn,
The sweet warmth of the sun upon my skin,
And the stillness of my own existence,
Of what am I to write?
The Hammer (an impromptu poem)
ReplyDeleteBad form (formalism?)
Is when one writes about writing:
Self-reflexive irony is hideous,
Like the toothless, pale
Horny Shakespeare of old.
We all do it though,
Like a girls who sows
And pricks herself every other day,
It is natural,
Yet escaping is not:
POETIC NIRVANA.
Writing as if by machine.
I liked. Very interesting subject; aaron... self-reflexively condemning self-reflexive irony? disgusting.
ReplyDeleteThe last stanza was my favorite
Ricochet
ReplyDeleteOld news
Is when one writes about love
(especially spurned love)
Its like swallowing
The spit of a wrinkly
Horny Shakespeare.
It's inevitable,
For we all have hearts
Yet all poets write
So why not expound
Upon passions so mutually
In existence?
(If anything, writing
is the lesser of the two
Pains.)
^^win
ReplyDelete"aaron... self-reflexively condemning self-reflexive irony? disgusting."
ReplyDeleteYou obviously didn't get the joke.
Into the Stratosphere
Why would I write about what another feels for me?
My mother loves me! Let me write a poem about it!
My brother is annoyed! Let me write about it!
That dog is indifferent!
That insect is scared!
Let me write about it!
Why then write about how other feels, and be inspired by their feelings?
Mutual passions?
My lover's passions are dirt
To my own:
They will exist whether or not mine do.
So I will not decide to write of my passions,
Based off the fickle decision of another:
My passions are my own.
You must have misconstrued
ReplyDeleteSomewhere in your pathless mind.
I speak not of other's feelings
For how can I interpret
The beatings of another heart
Underneath the skin that separates us all?
Poetry and love are
both subject matter for the pen.
Mutual passions.
You obviously didn't get the joke.
^^Hurt.
ReplyDeleteWinner;
ReplyDeleteI must raise the white flag.
However, white flags and black pens
Are an awful good way to respond
To the victor's sing-song
Meter.