Jon recently posted a poem he wrote on his livejournal. A bit of a discussion sprang up about poetic form and critique. I'm an indifferent poet at the best of times, and I haven't written poetry in years, but in the interest of sharing I figure I'll subject you all to three of my less crappy poems:
Writer's Block - a rondeau
I'm sitting here lacking inspiration poetic.
I'm tired, I'm hungry and feeling pathetic.
My roommates are all playing video games,
Dropping squares, forming lines which take over their brains.
They sit there calmly as I become frantic.
The cold night outside is quiet and stoic
And bare winter trees offer no thoughts heroic.
The bell rings, it's late and I'm suddenly drained.
I'm sitting here lacking inspiration poetic.
The wind blows in the window. It's howling, melodic.
The rich smell of popcorn is strangely hypnotic.
It's seeping in slowly beneath the door frame
But my lack of a story's still causing me pain.
The absence of vision is strangely ironic.
I'm sitting her lacking inspiration poetic.
The House
Sad and lonely there it stood
The grey old house upon the hill,
Its broken windows and rotten wood
Giving the air of sorrow. Still,
I knew that more than memories lived there,
Those long-abandoned waking dreams
That hung heavy in the stagnant air.
My eyes stared so intently that it seemed
As if I had seen the ghosts
My imagination told me must be hiding
In each decaying shingle, ledge and post.
With sharpened claws they sat deciding
Which parts of me would taste the best.
They'd gobble up my brains and heart
And cackling they'd leave the rest
To scatter to the wind. I darted
Home afraid of wraiths
And left behind no spirits in the house, I know,
But sure as I have breath and faith
Just memories of loss and sorrow
That always dwell in empty homes
When men have gone
And left but bones.
Cursing
A curse upon the weak-willed
Poets of this day and age,
Who write of nothing save their
Dreams of youth or misspent rage.
Who sings today of ancient
Magic or of fiery dragons?
Of brave heroes who with
Sword and shield raised flags on
The fields where lay
The bodies of their fallen foes?
Who knows today Ulysses,
Would follow where his voyage goes;
Through the peril of ten long years
'Til safe on native ground?
Who sings today of Arthur
And the knights of the table round?
When Keats told tale of Endymion
And Coleridge wrote of Kubla Kahn
And dreamed their dreams of ages gone
They both held greatness in their palms.
Yet none worship now Calliope,
Fair muse of epic poetry,
Who brought old Homer to his knees
And made at last the blind man see
The crew of the ships
Who longed for a kiss
From the lips of a maiden fair.
None tell tale of Schezerade
And Arabian nights of sand and air.
So I curse those poets of today
Who know only the span of their own years.
They write important things, perhaps,
But not with ancient blood and sweat and tears.