All entries for Friday 25 April 2008
April 25, 2008
So here are some new poems I wrote over the holiday for my portfolio. One is just a sort of self-expurgation, the other two are investigative experiments into stylistic restriction, on the same lines as A MidSummer Night's Massacre.
The pun is unloved, and shunned,
And spun in webs, and freely flung,
Fried from gums in bottles lust and one,
Where reavers rum and common darn,
Firming into skirmishes unsung.
The wore of words anon, and, ear two lung,
A limb or to, linguistic atoms,
Become no Moor than flirting crumbs.
Sea how it is done, the old syllabic dissection maid Jung.
To witch did they belong, these peaces of a word unstrung?
The Thais that bind now stunned, a wondered land of fun
Re-leaving the humdrum with the mow juiced
And so begun, abandoned…
The rhyme is alive, jumps from side to side,
Elusively gliding under the eyes and tickling the thighs,
Eliciting sighs from he who tries to scribe this butterfly’s jive:
Knowing how easily it dies, but striving to see how it flies,
And, once described, to help it survive, pressed inside his pages.
Here, both the full and the half rhyme thrive,
Safe from the genocide to which some would-be wordsmiths aspire,
Seeking the highs via the butchering of “I”s and “Thy”s,
Writhing sonnets mired in time which rightfully slide out of the public’s mind
Until they find themselves so dire, they expire on the spot.
Far from their funeral pure, the well-kept rhyme is admired,
Its plumage compiled entirely of its sire’s,
For though the combination’s inspired,
There’s nothing new for sale nor hire under the sun.
In its lifetime, the flyer’s course may change:
New sounds are acquired, as others fall away.
What was the mainstay yesterday is simply unseen today.
“But how the rhyme must strain to play such a game”,
They say, conveying an array of upsets to allay.
“It could not stay on the path whence it came, but,
No doubt kept at bay by some gale, gave way,
Braving unknown catastrophes with faltering grace,
Stretched, amazed at the pace with which it strays towards the malaise of clichés,
Abrasive dangers faced alone, destined to be disgraced and cast down
To await the same fate as the sonnets you slated before.”
“No dice”, I reply.
“Though what you decry sounds like a dire slide into the abyss,
This rhyme does not mind, but actually requires it:
It must not tire of the course, cannot stay on old lines.
If the signs of boredom arrive, then, under that same guise of easy freedom,
It must take to new skies, and from such change arise
Renewed and revived, and thus, safely arrived where it began,
Retire to the poet’s page, to be divinely imbibed.
Until such time as the winds change again…
How Bitter It Is To Dream
I am acutely aware of the world today.
I woke up with dry lips, stretching for a mirror that wasn’t there.
How vivid dreaming is, how upsetting.
In that night, we, who have known each other well,
Were transported to a summer’s eve,
And there, among the grass
Which welcomed us as a lover’s arms,
We spoke one language with our words
And another with our eyes.
The first, though I remember well, meant little,
Until the second overwhelmed it, and took charge.
And in the moment you lowered your head to kiss me,
I raised mine into nothingness.
Pouting at a bare room, I sank,
Cheated yet again by dreams esemplastic,
And lay to contemplate the silence of my lonely world.
Today is a day of what could have beens.
Still in expectation of that kiss, my senses reach
Far beyond their remit – my clothes are soft, they say;
The floor is hard, they say; and the sun is strong.
These feelings, they are not your lips, and never will be.
For one so strong, I am easily affected -
I eat and feel full, but still am void,
Unable to appreciate the beauty of the world around me.
For the beauty I seek has faded.
Seven seconds have set me in stone,
A tired effigy of the unrequited,
Hollow for your touch, the succour of your lips
Which I never have and never will know.