Yet another poetry purge
Apr. 7th, 2008 11:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
megwritesBTW, it's National Poetry Month. I didn't know that this was in April.
April kinda is the cruelest month. Also? It's the month I was born in. Although I was damn near born in May because I was overdue as a child. Luckily, my mother has forgiven me for this, but I think that if I had held out for Cinco de Mayo, I'd probably still be grounded or something like that.
So, here I am, purging myself of more poetry. I feel the need to do it, not so much because I think other people will even pay attention or like it. Not because I think I'll get some recognition or that I intend ever to publish poetry, but because I need to know I'm fearless enough to do let it out into the world. Even though I know that, like the tag says, This Can't End Well.
Although just to balance out the rancid taste of amateurism, I may post poetry from poets who don't suck. I'd post ee cummings on the spot, but the thought of having to html format the damn thing scares me. I love ee cummings, but he must be a nightmare to transfer to digital format. I can't imagine how the typesetters felt about him back in the day.
"Neither eyes nor tears to shed"
By: Meg Freeman
The universe is a construction
of the strange and the inevitable
So the laws of all that is dictate this:
That soon enough, in this world
there will have to be
some moment, some terrible moment
when the great stars
that we longed to touch
have flickered out, their fuel consumed
leaving us to bear the darker skies
as best we are able
and we will mourn this fact.
How is it that we may stretch our
grief for a million miles
but cannot so much as pity or forgive
when we turn our heads to see
the ever swarming sea of those around us?
How is it that we can aspire to so much
and remain, always, so very tiny?
It is the inexplicable nature
of a hapless little organism
who lives on this peculiar world
in this odd little universe
who will wail for that which
never once regarded it's existence
and weeps for things that have
neither eyes nor tears to shed.
April kinda is the cruelest month. Also? It's the month I was born in. Although I was damn near born in May because I was overdue as a child. Luckily, my mother has forgiven me for this, but I think that if I had held out for Cinco de Mayo, I'd probably still be grounded or something like that.
So, here I am, purging myself of more poetry. I feel the need to do it, not so much because I think other people will even pay attention or like it. Not because I think I'll get some recognition or that I intend ever to publish poetry, but because I need to know I'm fearless enough to do let it out into the world. Even though I know that, like the tag says, This Can't End Well.
Although just to balance out the rancid taste of amateurism, I may post poetry from poets who don't suck. I'd post ee cummings on the spot, but the thought of having to html format the damn thing scares me. I love ee cummings, but he must be a nightmare to transfer to digital format. I can't imagine how the typesetters felt about him back in the day.
"Neither eyes nor tears to shed"
By: Meg Freeman
The universe is a construction
of the strange and the inevitable
So the laws of all that is dictate this:
That soon enough, in this world
there will have to be
some moment, some terrible moment
when the great stars
that we longed to touch
have flickered out, their fuel consumed
leaving us to bear the darker skies
as best we are able
and we will mourn this fact.
How is it that we may stretch our
grief for a million miles
but cannot so much as pity or forgive
when we turn our heads to see
the ever swarming sea of those around us?
How is it that we can aspire to so much
and remain, always, so very tiny?
It is the inexplicable nature
of a hapless little organism
who lives on this peculiar world
in this odd little universe
who will wail for that which
never once regarded it's existence
and weeps for things that have
neither eyes nor tears to shed.
