More poem spam...
There are many things I don't want to be
in this wide world, but above all I loathe
the idea that I might belong
to the category
of the unpublished. Those aspiring writers
who finish the manuscript, sent it
in and then the reply comes: NO. We don't
want you, or this, not here, not now, NOT.
It's not you, it's us? The poetry
no longer drips from my tongue, my words
have lost their honeyed sweetness. Then
what shall I do now about it, how shall
this fix itself -- shall it?
Sometimes it's best to think and
then to writer, other times to
write and then thing, but
the abitrary pressing of
the "enter" key does not
make a poem out of words sprinkled across the wasteland
of the page. Eliot must have known
that it was hard; I don't know how
he did it. Painful
as Prufrock's last lurching breaths, before
he drowns in a sea of uncertainty
as the sirens sing on the shore.
POETRYPOETRYPOETRYPOETRYPOETRYPOETRYOMGYESIT'SPOETRYPOETRYPOETRYPOETRY
Well, you see, it's kind of like
our molecules for a moment mingle
and we're not two separate people,
there's just the "we."
--But that can't happen, you see;
you are you and I am me and
as much as I'd like to be
with you like that, it's not possible.
Why do you say this, dear? I know
that you're the smart one here,
but I like to think that, in love,
you don't have to be a rocket scientist.
--Yes, my love, I understand,
but please be more precise: you see,
on the basic molecular level, there
can never be zero space between particles.
I beg your pardon, but for all
those years of schooling, you're quite dull
to still believe that science has
anything to do with love.
POETRYPOETRYOMYGOSHICAN'TBELIEVEI'MTHISBOREDOFPOETRYPOETRYPOETRYPOETRY
Once upon a midnight dreary,
little Edgar Allen Poe
must've spouted off the theory
that the world would come to know
As his signature suggestion.
But what still amazes me
is that no one has sought to question
that a raven, flying free
Would drop in on Edgar Allen
in the darkness of the night,
making a show of feather and talon,
only to disappear from sight.
(Things like this show you how much I am SEVERELY LACKING IN GOOD IDEAS!!!)
I am now going to fall over and moan...after I get snack. Maybe I just need to come back to this whole poetry thing later, when my mind has been freed of its cliches.
in this wide world, but above all I loathe
the idea that I might belong
to the category
of the unpublished. Those aspiring writers
who finish the manuscript, sent it
in and then the reply comes: NO. We don't
want you, or this, not here, not now, NOT.
It's not you, it's us? The poetry
no longer drips from my tongue, my words
have lost their honeyed sweetness. Then
what shall I do now about it, how shall
this fix itself -- shall it?
Sometimes it's best to think and
then to writer, other times to
write and then thing, but
the abitrary pressing of
the "enter" key does not
make a poem out of words sprinkled across the wasteland
of the page. Eliot must have known
that it was hard; I don't know how
he did it. Painful
as Prufrock's last lurching breaths, before
he drowns in a sea of uncertainty
as the sirens sing on the shore.
Well, you see, it's kind of like
our molecules for a moment mingle
and we're not two separate people,
there's just the "we."
--But that can't happen, you see;
you are you and I am me and
as much as I'd like to be
with you like that, it's not possible.
Why do you say this, dear? I know
that you're the smart one here,
but I like to think that, in love,
you don't have to be a rocket scientist.
--Yes, my love, I understand,
but please be more precise: you see,
on the basic molecular level, there
can never be zero space between particles.
I beg your pardon, but for all
those years of schooling, you're quite dull
to still believe that science has
anything to do with love.
Once upon a midnight dreary,
little Edgar Allen Poe
must've spouted off the theory
that the world would come to know
As his signature suggestion.
But what still amazes me
is that no one has sought to question
that a raven, flying free
Would drop in on Edgar Allen
in the darkness of the night,
making a show of feather and talon,
only to disappear from sight.
(Things like this show you how much I am SEVERELY LACKING IN GOOD IDEAS!!!)
I am now going to fall over and moan...after I get snack. Maybe I just need to come back to this whole poetry thing later, when my mind has been freed of its cliches.
