Missing the poetry gene
Poetry intimidates me. It seems like there are no real rules, and for an engineer, that is anathema. Poetry is flowery language used to tangentially get a point across, written words that seem to trip my tongue rather than roll off. You must get extra points if the meaning is hidden in obscure references, leaving me to wonder what the real message is. I can often catch the scent of deep emotions, or profound truths, but the poem structure blows it away like a stiff breeze. I suppose if I do a forensic study, the poems will yield their story, but is it worth it? Whenever one of the Prose challenges requires a poem, I just try to make the words rhyme, and hope for grace from my readers. I guess when God was handing out poetry genes, I thought He said "poetry germs," so I said "Inoculate me instead."
The Poetic Imagination
The way I best define poetry is to imagine a world without it. We’ve heard the cliché “you don’t know what you got till it’s gone,”and it is rooted in truth- we often understand something’s value more acutely in its absence.What is a world without poetry?Poetry is an outlet to set free our innermost thoughts.
The thoughts we set free in our poem are captured by others, who are challenged to see the world in a new light.
Without poetry, we would lose this valuable avenue.
The social function of poetry is that it creates community, and often spoken word poetry events open up platforms to discuss important social issues.
Poetry broadens imagination as it forces us to explore our experiences in this complex world and leads to novel insights and perspectives.
To quote Albert Einstein: Imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution.
The Road that Stops
My enemy. I try to beat you but I can't. I can't master your techniques. My white whale, I can't ensnare you. I just watch and stare as you fly away. My inspiration, I plan to be like you. Strive to be like you, yet fall short each times. I have seen how you help others speak their thoughts. Hughes' Let America be America Again. Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Frost's The Road Not Taken. My words beg to be like theirs but fall short. My thoughts swirl, trying to craft themselves into lyrics, failing miserably. I am just another wannabe, watching real poets with dreamy eyes, hoping to one day soar with them.
What Means A Poem
In the world of literate expression there is always the literal.
Poetry: literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm
Literature: written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit.
Each part of these definitions could be analyzed with additional definitions of the words within and still remain unsure of the literal and precise meaning.
To take from these definitions, it could be argued, poetry is a form of expression that has potential to resonate through the ages to its audience.
Classic masterpieces of words yet unknown. Pieces of memory, yet to be more than defined as the sum of rhythm and feeling, more that precisely placed syllable and line.
A literal artwork of words expressed.
Please don’t go
Please don't leave me.
I know it's hard. I know life's hard. I know this world has torn you down over and over.
But don't go. I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I love you. I love you. I love you.
God damn it.
Okay.
I know this isn't even poetry anymore or even a piece of decent literature. You've always been the better one at this anyways. It's just I don't think I can tell you how much I need you.
You live on the other side of the damn world yet I can't help but think of you as my best friend. And I know life is such crap and that you just can't take it anymore. You don't deserve that. But I'm going to be selfish and tell you the truth. I don't deserve this.
This pain of not knowing whether I'll see your face on my screen ever again or if you'll alive long enough for me to meet you in person. Counting days between our goodbyes is like holding my breath and praying that you'll be okay. That life will be okay.
But I know that life isn't okay. This world sucks. I know. I know. I know. Just please don't make this world worse for me.
Stay. For me, if not you.
My Brother Wayne
Eyes white, teeth grit, nostrils flare.
You were not in control, you were deranged.
Blood pumped, fists clenched, slow expel of air.
I had to do something, you had changed.
You lunged, arms flailed, everything strewn.
Mum and dad cowered, fight of flight?
I stood, searched frantically, panic ballooned.
I grabbed a carving knife, plunged it to the right.
Legs weakened, mouth agape, blood gushed.
I realized, I too was someone else.
Scream galore, tears flowed, expressions crushed.
You laid there, your eyes tried to confess.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"Hush mate," I said.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"Hush, hush now," I said.
Lips curled, eyes softened, breathing slowed.
In that last breath, I recognized that soul.
Eyes wept, fingers trembled, lips bowed.
In that moment, my heart was a gaping hole.
Your name was Wayne, you were my bane.
You were my brother, no one knew me better.
I loved you dearly, twas sad you left too early.
Now you're gone, who's gonna dye the hamster blond?
I sit here alone, feeling the chill in my bone.
I sit here alone, reeling from losing my clone.
I sit here alone, hoping one day to atone.
I sit here alone, waiting to go home.
(Based on a true story)
Whisky
I walk into a bar and order a drink.
"Glass of whisky."
"You're a writer, aren't you?"
I look to my left. Blonde broad. I like brunettes. Looks thin, but you can tell she's flabby under all those clothes. Skinny-fat girl. Nice eyes. Decent tits. I'm fucking her tonight.
"No." I am.
"Well you sure look as broken as one. All dirty and shit. Sad eyes. You've got those sad, sad eyes."
"And you've got a fat ass."
"Fuck you. Why do you keep looking into that empty glass?"
"I'm waiting to see if there is an answer to my life at the bottom of it."
"How many glasses have you checked?"
"Three." The bartender hands me the new glass. Four.
She sits and watches me. It starts to make me uncomfortable. I wonder if I should fuck her now so I can get rid of her early.
No.
I'd rather be too drunk to realize how lonely fucking her makes me feel.
"What are you staring at whore?"
"Fuck you. You think you're all smart and shit. I know you write. All writers feel bad for themselves and don't do shit about it. I'm just trying to figure out your story."
"There isn't a story. I don't write."
"Bull shit. What's on that napkin? Looks like some fancy words to me."
Didn't know 'distinguished' and 'appealing' counted as fancy words. My temper starts rising. One thing I hate more than a dumb person is a dumb whore.
"Cunt."
"Prick."
"Want to fuck?" She's talking too much.
"Fuck you? Fuck you."
I pinch her ass and she slaps me. Bitch. I look around. No other broads in the bar. Damn. Going to have to do a little work. Maybe I'll just wack off. Let's see how far the whore pushes me.
"I'm Charles."
"Like that prince?"
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Can't deal with girls this dumb. I finish my last sip of Johnnie and pay the tab. I walk away without looking at her. Don't want to spit in her face and have one of these piss stinking old men try to be a hero.
"Hey! Where you going?!"
I ignore her. Keep walking Charles. You can ball up your hand, put a little lotion on it, and make a vagina a hell of a lot cleaner than this bitches. Bet she doesn't douche.
"Wait up! I want to come with you."
...Hesitate...
Dammit.
Got to stop thinking with that other head of mine.
"Yeah baby? I bet you want to come."
"Yeah, I do."
"Oh yeah? All right. I can do that. I'll let you come."
"Yeah, yeah. I want to."
"Better yet, I'm going to make you come."
This shit is too easy. Let anything with a pussy go, and it'll come back. Those things are kind of shaped like boomerangs.
She comes back. I'm not drunk enough. Glass number five. Six. Seven. She's getting more attractive. I can almost convince myself that I want to do this now.
She's squirming. I can smell her getting wet from here. I'm going to put my naked dick inside of some foreign moist cave. The sickening stench is like a bad trip. I'm overdosing on the fumes. I know I shouldn't, but I'm going to. This is how I feel less lonely. For a moment. Then when I see this stranger in my arms, I feel worse than ever. Stomach churning. Nausea. Fucking wretching, writhing in pain.
I throw her down onto my sheetless bed.
...Sheetless pull out couch. I don't actually have a bed.
I'm an angry fuck. I can't hit a woman in public, but in bed it's acceptable. They enjoy it. At least the whores do. Not the nice girls who want to be the one's who change me. I tear them apart. But hey, shouldn't have tried to change me.
So I tear the skin off of her back with my pathetic excuse for finger nails.
That was for the dumb girl who asked what "a nigma" was.
And I pull strings, ropes, curtains of blonde hair out of her head.
And this is for the bitch who told me my writing was "icky."
I pinch her thighs until the white starts to purple.
And that's for the Prince Charles comment. Dumb cunt.
I'm losing control
Then I see her face and control is lost.
My dick becomes this dagger. My balls, it's marble handle. I'm cutting into her. I'm not going crazy. I know exactly what I'm doing. And it feels good. So fucking good. I'm orgasming, and I can't stop. The come just keeps coming. Her blood is everywhere. Her insides are dripping out. I've never had sex this good in my life.
She's crying.
I'm laughing.
She's screaming.
I'm screeching.
She's clawing.
I'm gnawing.
She's dying.
She's dying.
I'm smiling.
Joy to the fucking world the bitch is dead.
Now out with my head.
I release.
I look down at my masterpiece. A true work of art. Puts Picasso to shame.
I'm not going mad. I'm not being mad. I'm not acting mad.
But I'm so damn mad.
Yet I've never felt so perfectly sane in my entire life.
Within the Silvered Glass
Within the silvered glass I spy
the mask I wear, my perfect lie.
This happy face, it is not me;
I show them what they want to see
while deep inside I slowly die.
I cannot let them see me cry,
so I just smile and wave goodbye
then check for signs of pain, set free
within the silvered glass.
With broken wings I’ll never fly;
I turn away and softly sigh.
My world consists of tragedy -
a scream that echoes silently.
The fools can’t see, it is not I,
within the silvered glass.
(c) 2016 - dustygrein
** The rondeau is often able to convey a depth that somehow transcends it's mere fifteen lines. This one was written for my daughter. Since the loss of my grandson to SIDS in 2011, she has worn her mask almost all the time - and only those of us who know the pain can see behind the smiles.
think about it
i think, therefore i am
i borrow from rene decartes
to ponder philosophically
and share my thoughts of thinking
i think that because i think- i am,
but there are exceptions,
to modify the great descarte's expression
i am, regardless of whether i think or not
because when i sleep i am unaware
unless i ride along as a thinking passenger
with my subconsciousness driving me its plot
however, i am not thinking,
my dear rene,
as in the case of a dreamless state
or knocked out cold under anesthesia
and yet i am,
because upon waking and rising and reflecting,
i draw upon the conclusion, clear
that i am,
because i still was,
though asleep
by another proof
my wife perhaps, by my snoring
knows despite my unawares,
that i am
i exist, i lie beside her alive
although i do not know myself
that i am, at that point
because i am unconscious
i think therefore i am
and if i find myself not thinking
i nonetheless still am
i am to someone
i will forever be
whether thinking or not -
think of a rock, for instance
it does not think,
but it is -
it exists
a rock cannot say i am -
but it is
and if a corpse cannot think
it still is,
it exists,
even as it cannot think
as the decomposition of a corpse takes effect
and its state changes biochemically -
the transformation of matter -
where has its thinking gone?
. . . to the place from whence it sprang?
after all, matter cannot be created or destroyed
something is missing,
. . . isn't it?
. . . the corpse was,
therefore it is
the trick is to find its missing piece
which has passed to another state
another place?
my body is only a part of the real me
i think because i am
the power to think is a blessing
When the Curbside Pined for You
Do you think
of the pavement with each
graceful prance, each careless
step a mocking pressure
upon its squalid face?
If it paused
in its hopelessness
and anguish
to take stock of
infatuation and take
offense at your naive
snub
(note: sidewalks, to my knowledge
do not, as a rule
love, think, or bear grudges, still)
it would rear
up
and skin your
damn-lovely
porcelain knees
even as it daydreams
fondly of that night two
months ago when you, inebriated,
besotted, clung to it
for dear life
and whispered
your numerous sorrows
as it caressed and soothed
your flushed cheek.