Bureau Of Tourism

It's been quite some time since I posted any poetry. I suppose that my enthusiasm has waned somewhat, but I suspect that it will wax again at some time. After all, the prospect of being paid for writing remains a powerful motivator, and I am all the more confident of my ability to achieve it with poetry after having read what passes muster at the poetry periodical to which I have submitted work in the past. Perhaps I'm biased, but I happen to think my stuff is better.

This poem is meant to be longer, but I must confess that I grew impatient, and rashly stripped away the letter which I had in place to remind me of the rhyme scheme. I really don't even recall what form of poem it's supposed to be, but I do know it customarily has two more stanzas at least. Well, for once I will bend to the prevailing reading habits of the world and make something shorter and not longer. I do hope you'll enjoy it in spite of the fact that I have gone against my usual inclinations by speaking ill of my own work and not letting people work out whether it's good or not on their own. Maybe if it proves to be a good start I'll finish it.

Uninvited

The last of this round of poetry. More is apt to come before too long, to break up the philosophical posts and party posts if for no other reason.

Aren't We Friends?

Today, another morose and angst-ridden poem of the kind that used to go no further than a middle school student's notebook. It's a Roundel, as each of the other sad poems I've written were. The composition of it aroused some attention among my comrades. It occurred in my head during church and on paper immediately afterward in a diner. Obviously, the former session would not have drawn any notice if not for the fact that I repeatedly and animatedly counted syllables on my fingers as the sermon took place in front of us. I tried to allay any resentment by suggesting that it was God's will to move me to pen the poem, but that seemed not to cut any ice. In any case, here's the poem:

A Patron Scorned

It's back to the Shakespearean Sonnet. I don't know that the event which inspired this one is necessarily as grand and epic as those which must have moved the Bard, but be assured that the churning emotions I felt were every bit as large as those expressed in any of the master's works. It's the trivial and the passing which arouse my most percussive outbursts, as those who know me will attest.

Rubicon

It's going to be poems for the next four days, as my first rejection has come in, and they no longer need to be saved for that periodical. Hopefully my own readers will be more receptive. There has been little feedback to speak of thus far from them for my poetry except that there has been no vehement rejection of it. That would seem to be good news, considering that such was the end of my movie reviews.

Let it never be said that I don't take criticism into account, but I think I have adequate reason to write some more poetry. No matter what, though, I don't expect to ever devote myself to it fully. As I write this, Amazon.com's top-selling book of poetry ranks 1,652nd overall. That speaks for itself. I have no intention of my ultimate reward being the posthumous recognition of having my work placed on a mandatory reading list by English department faculty.

The writing of poetry is growing on me somewhat. I have my sights set on composing something gripping and action-packed like "Gunga Din" or "Charge Of The Light Brigade". At any rate, I think I'm getting more comfortable writing in rhyme as well as in a form. I have always maintained that restrictions can force creativity rather than stifling it, and I think my efforts bear that out to some extent.

Sally Forth Onto the Battlefield

I present another poem, like it or not. I might have mentioned before either of the two I've posted previously (the first being this one, and the second this)that I have not written very many, though I may have read a few more than the average person. I like to think that I have most of the fundamental knowledge, though. As I've said, I like to play with words like the parts of a clock. Perhaps my inexperience in poetry could be called an advantage of the kind enjoyed by Orson Welles as he left theater and radio behind in favor of motion pictures. Probably that's not the case, but it gives me enough confidence to take a stab at poetry.

This is what's called a Roundel. It's a variation on the French Rondeau form, which was most famously employed for John MaCrae's World War One poem, 'In Flanders Fields'. I would have written one of those, but got the idea that I would rather not do so in English, in spite of the fact that there's obviously no prohibition against it.

Before the Featured Presentation, A Villanelle

From time to time, I'm moved to write some poetry. Not too much, because it's well-known that dedicated poets are utterly repelled by all prospects of steady income, but I do have some interest (and, God help me, perhaps some very small measure of aptitude). Today I attempt the form so successfully undertaken by such luminaries as Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath. The tone of the piece seemed called for after yesterday's post.

A Spenserian Sonnet

When I came here I became my own man
My words are my own and so are my deeds
I left my birthplace to do what I can
God willing I can fulfill all my needs
It came to pass that I planted the seeds
The challenges are legion and I fear
I go my way but know not where it leads
I think I've won the respect of my peer
Though for my poverty I shed a tear
Still I forge on and my time will come yet
Be it most distant or be it quite near
I pray, God, for the wisdom to not fret
Shall I be like the Spartan mother's son
And with shield show that I lost or I won?