hoshi
Unassigned rank
Posts: 2
|
Post by hoshi on Nov 10, 2011 16:10:39 GMT -5
NaNoWriMo stuffs~
|
|
hoshi
Unassigned rank
Posts: 2
|
Post by hoshi on Nov 10, 2011 16:21:09 GMT -5
Er...okay. So this poem was kinda written in rebellion and as a rant towards teachers that would tell me to express myself, but then force the 'myself' part to be simplistic contemporary like in the Wheelbarrow poem, rather than...you know..who I am am and how I write. So...yeah, please excuse the rambliness, bad language, rage, Wheelbarrow poem/contemporary poetry bashing (it's not so much a criticism of the poetry itself, but of the advocating of what feels like watered-down modern culture), and ridiculous length of this thing. So now, without further ado...Rant and Ramble, I Must Scream
“Your writing’s clichéd,” they say. “Too archaic, too much Kitch. Fluff and flowers, such romanticism. So based in the old, corny Roses are Red So elite in description So ancient in style So gaudy, so much unnecessary Who talks like that? Too much sophistication Too much thought OVERTHINKING.” And so then I reply, “Maybe I’m confused. Poetry Please tell me- -I forget- What is poetry?” After they stare for a moment Because they thought that I understood Because they thought that I had a grasp They finally answer, “Poetry is what comes from your heart! It’s what comes from you It’s what comes from your mind Buried in the soil Of beliefs and ideas Born of emotion and inspiration It sprouts And thrives In response to that muse It is born as an expression Of who And what You are.” And so I think. And then I wonder. Confusion circulates in the mind. Too archaic. Too gaudy. So much Kitch And so much fluff Floral and Ancient Corny And Elite Roses are Red Roses are Red Violets are blu- “Wait. Screw you. Roses are blood Manifested as Silk Or snow in its organic form. Or the canary’s feathers sprouted on a Buttery bud Of a daffodil Which If healthy Is the color of goddamned sunshine. Violets are VIOLET Hence the name A dark violet, Stormy and A tempest Of color. Call me archaic Call me cheesy Accuse me of fluff and flower and Kitch You want my SOUL Scrawled on paper? I call bullshit to your claim. You want simple And commercial Must conform When society breaks down Must conform To the masses As they Begin to lose Complex cognition And deep thought Deep understanding. You want me? That’s not me. I refuse to fall Into the dumbed down masses The simplified society To conform and lose myself To their escape Called ‘Easy’. I understand Being unique To not ride coattails Originality is the key To this clever game Of literacy. But something I think About poetry? About your beloved poetry And what I think You wish not To see? Depth is gone You wish not to think But instead Read about poems About water sitting there On a goddamned WHEELBARROW Not sparkling Not shimmering Not glittering in the light of the sun No life No fascination All wonder gone From that heart you had When you were once a child. A red wheelbarrow Covered with dew And that’s it That’s it! That’s poetry? That’s fucking PROSE With bad Freaking Grammar. That’s POETRY? I could tell you about that wheelbarrow As it sits there With specks of water With drops of dew And tell you That exact same thing As we pass by it on the street And then I could add, Since random statements are now Such marvelous phrases Spawned from Genius Patches In Kroeber’s Superorganic (Whoops, wait, did I get too complex? I forget I must speak simply As such elitism in Vocabulary Is legal in these writings No more.) But anyway. But then I could tell you Then I could add That your marvelous wheelbarrow While all red. (Just red.) Sitting there Covered with dew. (Just covered.) (Only dew.) I could also add The ground-breaking news News that would shatter your perspective And rock your world With the dirty reality you seem to love You seem to cherish. I could say, “Oh yeah. And that wheelbarrow. Your fucking wheelbarrow Is going to RUST Sitting out there Getting wet And as it becomes a scourge on to your eyes As it brings Embarrassment To your beautiful lawn It will be tossed Chucked Whatever word is easiest And Most hillbilly- -Or local- For you to say And then it will be carted off In a smelly old truck And dumped onto a mountain of garbage That reeks And destroys the earth And stands as a testament To your waste And consumerism As it slowly rots away at the world.” But that’s beautiful, right? That is the poetry that you desire The simple honesty that you wish The reality portrayed in its Most Basic Of Forms. Don’t look at me like that- It’s merely an extension Of that goddamned poem you always promote With all your colleagues in the most Tiresome Unison. So here’s a poem from me to you A caution, a warning And Oh yeah Time to drop this guise Of writing YOUR style This tiresome style That you try to force me To call mine. THIS IS ME And let me say- -Let me give my poem away- You want me? My inner self? My soul which dwells within my being? Fine. In all of my flowers And my fluff In all of my archaic And ancient voice In all my Kitch And my gaudy words Try to keep up As the college student SPEAKS With an eloquent Vocabulary That reflects the high standards required To pay a bunch of money To learn your dumbed-down simplicity Here goes my poem Without delay Now get off your high horse And listen TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY: “Life is lifeless when you drain it away, Respect is in the eloquence of the written word. Admire the dawn? Do it with care. Give full description if you choose to share. Honor the written word, And honor your heart. Paint With the swirling colors within For little difference is between paintbrush and pen And always remember Keep in mind Meaning loses meaning When you leave it behind.”
|
|