I'm starting to think I'm really, really, REALLY bad at poetry. I read this again and think, what the hell? Maybe true art is incomprehensible? Whatever true art is, it's not bad, which this certainly is. Hey, at least I cut out the really clumsy parts and left the good stuff in. One final note: this particularly clumsy attempt at poetry is dedicated to...I can't say. Suffice to say, this was the last time that person haunted my dreams.
PLAY IT AGAIN
We make beautiful music together.
Like any good music we wish it never ends.
Like any good thing, it must.
It is a duet we perform
She and I
in harmony.
already, silent rests between bars,
long notes to the stars, our hearts
beating out the time of the nocturne we
compose with our bodies
making sweet music.
Each beat to the tempo,
Each move in legato,
nuancing each high with a low
'til even each discord flows
into one long nocturnal melody
until finally, accelerando, to the
cadence of our concerto.
Like any good music we wish it never ends.
Like any good thing, it must.
5 comments:
Loved it, man. If you call this clumsy, I feel bad for Robert Frost.
Well people can blame you for encouraging me, then. Thanks.
I still think it's not as graceful as I could have made it, though.
Graceful in poetry is for the likes of Maya Angelou. No, as men we have to be bad ass like William Blake or Edgar Allan Poe. =p
A Poison Tree by William Blake
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,--
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
And that was written in the 18th century. Nuff said. =D
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