Feeling all poetic this morning
Mar. 5th, 2005 12:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
philenaTen hours of sleep will do that! Yesterday at work I ran across one of
those MoPoRa collections of "poems about poems" which are generally so pretentious! "I saw my pencil/on my desk/and it reminded me that WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE AND BECOME MAGGOT-RIDDEN CORPSES/ and
so I picked it up and began to write./ Spring rain and puppies become
lines of licorice, and beer flows like tar." And don't forget the
LiFE ANd lo
ve don'
TMEan PIGeonp
oop.
It's as if the writers are determined to torture the poetic genre just in case the dreck they spew out might actually be good, but they're too lazy to do anything more proactive than simply pounding a keyboard. A thousand monkeys, you know, only in this case there's only one, and the lack of its collaboraters shows. But then I saw this:
'I came upon the poem the way the hunter discovers the animal in the
bush, with shock. I leveled my sights and was about to shoot when it
spoke. "I'm here to be discovered. Place a leash around my neck and
we'll travel together to your house." I lowered my weapon, amazed. The
animal stepped out from its hiding and stood in front of me, waiting
for me to recover myself. We then began to walk back to my house where
I sprawled in my chair, unbelieving, the animal lyng at my feet and
looking up at me, not with adoration or servility but as an observer
of another world than its own.
'I thought, if I should let others know about it they would think me
touched. So I decided that when they came to visit or I them I would
have this animal at my side. It might ask for a bite or excuse itself
to do its toilet, and all those gathered in the room would stare back
at it in horror, then at me in amazement, then back at the creature in
desbelief, then back to me, incredulously, finally to burst out in
fright and bewilderment. Was that speech they had heard from the
animal lyng at my feet? I'd have to nod solemnly, ery much amused.
Yes, speech, and ther est of the evening would go by in an uproar of
excitement, delight, fear, delight, fear.'
Fine, fine, so it's not really a poem. But I liked it! I need to start keeping a collection of poetry about poetry, because there's some great stuff out there, and it must be saved from the pigeon poop and maggoty corpses.
LiFE ANd lo
ve don'
TMEan PIGeonp
oop.
It's as if the writers are determined to torture the poetic genre just in case the dreck they spew out might actually be good, but they're too lazy to do anything more proactive than simply pounding a keyboard. A thousand monkeys, you know, only in this case there's only one, and the lack of its collaboraters shows. But then I saw this:
'I came upon the poem the way the hunter discovers the animal in the
bush, with shock. I leveled my sights and was about to shoot when it
spoke. "I'm here to be discovered. Place a leash around my neck and
we'll travel together to your house." I lowered my weapon, amazed. The
animal stepped out from its hiding and stood in front of me, waiting
for me to recover myself. We then began to walk back to my house where
I sprawled in my chair, unbelieving, the animal lyng at my feet and
looking up at me, not with adoration or servility but as an observer
of another world than its own.
'I thought, if I should let others know about it they would think me
touched. So I decided that when they came to visit or I them I would
have this animal at my side. It might ask for a bite or excuse itself
to do its toilet, and all those gathered in the room would stare back
at it in horror, then at me in amazement, then back at the creature in
desbelief, then back to me, incredulously, finally to burst out in
fright and bewilderment. Was that speech they had heard from the
animal lyng at my feet? I'd have to nod solemnly, ery much amused.
Yes, speech, and ther est of the evening would go by in an uproar of
excitement, delight, fear, delight, fear.'
Fine, fine, so it's not really a poem. But I liked it! I need to start keeping a collection of poetry about poetry, because there's some great stuff out there, and it must be saved from the pigeon poop and maggoty corpses.
