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One Retort
Contributed by
screwge
on
Saturday, 13th December 2008 @ 10:48:41 PM in AEST
Topic:
poets
|
I would not let them in.
I would not let them traipse
Upon the drapes.
Poets of my ilk
Yearn for words seamless as silk.
At night, flicking off alarms,
Poets fear a creature who disarms
Baleful dreams,
Then hold fast to their nightmare-themes.
Upon waking, when nothing that they utter
Is saved but for the gutter,
Poets lick parapets.
Poets tread florid carpets
Because all night cold toes
Paced the hard floors of prose.
No, I would not let them in.
At breakfast, poetry jams and jellies,
Sugarcoated low blows, hits to the bellies,
Words at pity-driven altitudes;
Still we complain about the foods
And nurse our yellow pads of notes
Like partisans who mourn lost votes.
One colleague, want to grab at gender roles
And stab at floating donut holes,
Is predominately female,
Though she sometimes does impale
Her fork into a beast. The beast is orthodox
—A minimalist, a silver fox—
Bent like Thoreau and nature-stern,
Taken aback by another’s will to spurn.
So I would not let them in.
We can stomach
The modern writers, anemic
Without that buff grace, muscle, ligament,
Who seize the extra condiment.
They are quick
To self-deprecate, deny that an alembic
Lives, then eat at untapped rates,
Acting like token ingrates.
After breakfast, a few fear frisking brooms,
Running faucets, uproarious vacuums
That inhale all precious crumbs.
Some twitch, twiddling their thumbs,
And flinch,
Seeing all the rhymes left to clinch
Sucked into mass-abyss.
Then these lean poets grow listless
Hypocrites who feasted on immense
Meals, abruptly making dense,
Slouching fools with sloth
Creeping in, froth
Around their mouths. We move
To the living room. Others occupy the groove
In the couch I claim. And critique
New upholstery in their bard-speak,
Wishing for old silk brocade
—Decade after decade—
Because I would not let them out;
Now ghosts roam about.
I would not let them through the door,
Not with eclogues, sonnets, nor
With their hearts in mail and splendid
Unfoiled gifts of kindred
Apathy
For all to see.
--------
My lament for the dead is not concise.
It croons and rattles. Ghosts dice
The lines to moribund clauses.
These I execute with pauses.
I blame bold sobs
For my halting, then door knobs
Wiggle eerily. So it is the tears!
I propose, and chandeliers
Crash. Ghosts poke at this old stalwart,
Looking for one just retort.
In time, I stowed away incense,
Shedding big deference
For these bitter wraiths, then laughed
At the mawkish cadence of my craft.
Copyright ©
screwge
... [
2008-12-13 22:48:41]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: One Retort
(User Rating: 1 )
by GregoryGreen04 on
Tuesday, 27th January 2009 @ 10:22:50 AM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
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| Interesting read. Aside from the content, I think that the poem was pleasing to read. The word usage caused it to flow fluidly. |
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