Immigrant Blues
Irony:
As I progressed from level to level through my education I grew ever more hateful of a long abused art form once called poetry. I found the prose poetry, the formless, rhymeless mass of words combined in a mockery of good taste detestable. How could anyone write such useless prattle and call it poetry? How could they compare this to Alfred Lord Tennyson, Yeates, and others? I grew to hate this new fangled poetry to the point where I devised my own prose "poem" which I filled with sufficient stupidity to ridicule the practitioners of this "twaddle."
Life.
A balloon,
Floating through the air
Until
POP!
Death.
How can anyone think that such useless garbage is poetry? It turned me off to the point that I mounted my own personal boycott of everything poetic, good or bad. I would have nothing to do with this unfortunately maligned art form. I was anti-poetry.
Fast forward to now.
Over the last few years I have written lyrics to several songs, words for my brother to put to music, as he received his BA in Music Composition last December. We are also currently working on a musical and therefore I write many lyrics, or in other words, poetry. My night time hours are also plagued by this nagging rhythm of words that seem to express themselves poetically within the confines of my brain; words that jump and jive in my mind like the plucked string of a bass violin, or the energetic child in a summer fountain. Do I shut off this source of intrigue, this creative flow? Of course not, such would be lyrical suicide.
Thus, last night, I sat at my computer and put words to glowing electrons. I wrote a poem. Worse, this poem contains some elements of prose. In my race for words I have betrayed a belief fostered through years of education. Betrayed, or is it saved? Time has yet to tell, but I include this poetic effort below and hope my future endeavors will improve. For those of you who do read this, please comment, let me know if I have hit the mark, approached it, or fired in the opposite direction.
Immigrant Blues
Shivering waistrals assault the night,
A forlorn people intent on gathering,
This is not the end of life
Just another beginning.
Forsaken and lost they assemble here
Seeking the hope which once had died.
A face in the crowd filled with fear
Teaches of wisdom, accuses of lies.
How now? Ask the birdmen,
Atop their tall towers.
In this place you are not allowed.
Go back, turn around, leave us be.
Downtrodden and betrayed they shuffle,
No hope for the wonderer here.
They've spent all their lives in the scuffle
And approaching the gates, their hope disappears.
Copyright 2005
As I progressed from level to level through my education I grew ever more hateful of a long abused art form once called poetry. I found the prose poetry, the formless, rhymeless mass of words combined in a mockery of good taste detestable. How could anyone write such useless prattle and call it poetry? How could they compare this to Alfred Lord Tennyson, Yeates, and others? I grew to hate this new fangled poetry to the point where I devised my own prose "poem" which I filled with sufficient stupidity to ridicule the practitioners of this "twaddle."
Life.
A balloon,
Floating through the air
Until
POP!
Death.
How can anyone think that such useless garbage is poetry? It turned me off to the point that I mounted my own personal boycott of everything poetic, good or bad. I would have nothing to do with this unfortunately maligned art form. I was anti-poetry.
Fast forward to now.
Over the last few years I have written lyrics to several songs, words for my brother to put to music, as he received his BA in Music Composition last December. We are also currently working on a musical and therefore I write many lyrics, or in other words, poetry. My night time hours are also plagued by this nagging rhythm of words that seem to express themselves poetically within the confines of my brain; words that jump and jive in my mind like the plucked string of a bass violin, or the energetic child in a summer fountain. Do I shut off this source of intrigue, this creative flow? Of course not, such would be lyrical suicide.
Thus, last night, I sat at my computer and put words to glowing electrons. I wrote a poem. Worse, this poem contains some elements of prose. In my race for words I have betrayed a belief fostered through years of education. Betrayed, or is it saved? Time has yet to tell, but I include this poetic effort below and hope my future endeavors will improve. For those of you who do read this, please comment, let me know if I have hit the mark, approached it, or fired in the opposite direction.
Immigrant Blues
Shivering waistrals assault the night,
A forlorn people intent on gathering,
This is not the end of life
Just another beginning.
Forsaken and lost they assemble here
Seeking the hope which once had died.
A face in the crowd filled with fear
Teaches of wisdom, accuses of lies.
How now? Ask the birdmen,
Atop their tall towers.
In this place you are not allowed.
Go back, turn around, leave us be.
Downtrodden and betrayed they shuffle,
No hope for the wonderer here.
They've spent all their lives in the scuffle
And approaching the gates, their hope disappears.
Copyright 2005
posted by Thuan30 | 6:32 PM
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