Is that the best you have,
This Hallmark drivel?
Prose haphazardly cut into slices
As though words were your cows
And you a drunken butcher?
For shame, you squealer of old laments!
You, who think your every thought
Gold, or at least silver.
You, who cannot withstand
The loathing eye.
Forget your ignoble pursuit,
Abandon your ill-constructed pain,
Your vanities and profound nonsense,
And become that far off
And distant mirage that eludes:
Become a poet.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Hi, again, Matt! I just popped over from Sharepoetry to read your work, and you certainly made it worth my while.
I find the rhymes in this piece diabolically clever-- underscoring the sarcasm of wannabes entrenched in bygone styles, or bogged down with their "ill-constructed pain." I like to think that latter remark was a thinly veiled shot at the Po-po-poor-me poets, expiring of adolescence and a profusion of bad music.
Love the last line-- "distant mirage that eludes: Become a poet." Right ON. The title suggests you're giving yourself a stern pep-talk, but I still rather like that this could be addressed to all aspiring scribes-- stop sniveling Hallmark tear-jerkers and write something real.
I also really loved the image of cows and a butcher. Great stuff.
Cheers,
Pie
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Thanks, CP
Anytime I am read by those for whom I have utmost respect, I am humbled. You are talented and insightful. I decided to title the thing toward myself in order to minimize the collateral damage of a random lashing. Good eye, batter-batter. Good eye.
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