Postby capt_weasle » 2009.04.16 (06:24)
This is a Poem
Need not form, nor style, nor talent, nor know-how
Said I the poet the writer the wit
Frost, Cummings, they would all disavow
But this is poetry, as luck just might have it
Organization and coherence need not apply
I could just pull ideas from out of the sky
Picasso, Pollock, they truly had it all
Why make art when I can just throw paint on a wall?
Behold, I am the poet, the writer, the wit
I present a profound idea obscured by subtlety
Future students shall look upon and study it
And cringe, to an intolerable degree
Behind these golden walls of diction
Lay the idea, the theme, the motifs
That presents a judgment of conviction
for the world with whom I do not share beliefs
Do not fret, if ye shall find offense
For I have conjured the greatest defense
While I seem to be of the least talented
I bear a strength which may not be so subtle
The man screaming, the child cooing,
the blank piece of paper on the wall
As that is all art, poetry this must be it
For I am the poet the writer the wit.
Here am I, writing what
May come to my mind
Because no matter how odd, how strange, how maddening
Still am I the poet the writer the wit
Classical allusions, they may prevail,
Stories or heroes, to whom I may hint
Within my own stories prevail
Because classical knowledge is all the rage
(amongst poets it seems)
Here I am, writing what
Will be read in the land of tomorrow
“What is the message?” Asks the teacher to the students
but all they know is that she doesn’t.
What use are these rhyming schemes, these
noble structures and intricate patterns
if I could just decide I want to make a
n
i b
a o
r w?
I am a modernist, some unconventionalist
(yes I just made a new word)
But don’t look confused and don’t seem amiss
that I found a word to rhyme with one that doesn’t exist
However confusing these lines may be
they serve a certain point
Because if E.e. Cummings can do it
So may I
For what was once the envy of those who couldn’t
rhyme scheme or do acrobatics with language
has now fallen into the hands of people who just
want to write what they feel and leave the rest
To people who must decipher the words of the poet
Because what they say must be important. as everything
written seems to have purpose, even that which does
not have purpose only reveals itself to show purposelessness
(which is in of itself a purpose)
One should think this is quite in disorder
But alas, everything is in order,
because I am a poet, and this is my poem
and within it is that which newly defines some important subject
For what one man can do I can do better
The rest they will cry Heresy!
I think they should find me guilty
For in the end I am not
the poet the writer the wit
Or am I?
"How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot: Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd" ~ Alexander Pope
"Boredom is not an appropriate response to exploding cars" ~ Hugh Laurie