Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Odd, Old poems. Why not.

The great writer, Andrew Borgstrom and I used to pick a topic once a week and force ourselves to write about it. Ir was a process the more harder when he picked the subject matter.  These are my responses to his topics and mine. Guess which ones I chose and you win nothing but a good pat on the back. These are older and hence one can see the evolution, slower going than a sloth, but forward nonetheless


6 or is it 7 poems September 17, 2007

“The Sun is a Woman”

Follow me, she says, as she emerges from the cloud’s gossamer veil.
Remember me, she says, and erases all proof of her existence—interminable night.
Look at me, she says, clothed in shimmering afternoon radiance enough to blind.
Die with me, she says, as she completes another day’s glorious round.

But man has no real cycle and will always be afraid of death.

“Why I Will Never be an Artist”

Chaos came to me last night. One thousand shards of sharp ideas. I gathered them out of the muck and formulated the inchoate mass into working forms. The artist is in his element at night. But today it is Order that tries to sway me. Order has scheduled a time and created a plan to write these ideas down in a well structured manner. The ideas are dead. Apollo is trying to kill me. Do you hear me? Apollo is trying to destroy me. 

“A Form of Art” 

If the God of Truth would take me by the legs, hold me upside down, wring me until drops of brain-blood oozed from my nose and onto the paper. If He would smear the blood so it formed any type of pattern, a line, a streak, I would then be able to say “I have created.” And I could look at it and proclaim “it is good” and finally rest. 

“Twenty-First Century Muse” 

I implore you: Sing, sing old Muse, Sing of fearless heroes and fierce battles and unfeigned glory, but I got a crack whore in a putrid alley telling me to either give her money or shut up—I’ll try again. 
I beseech thee: Sing, sing old Muse, Take this offering and with it move my pen, let it sing the songs of fearless heroes and fierce battles and unfeigned glory, but I got a teenage girl who abandoned her wailing baby telling me either dance with her or shut up—One last time I will try to conjure up the great Goddess.
I plead unto thy kind nature: Sing, sing old Muse. Accept this sacrifice my true and humble heart and with it sound the notes of fearless heroes and fierce battles and unfeigned glory, but I got a feminist screaming in my ear telling me either find a male Muse or shut up—I am out of inspirations. 

“The Argument”

It started like this: Dionysus was not happy that Apollo only used one exclamation point. He specifically told him the sentence warranted three. Apollo argued that the concrete rules of grammar are set up so only one exclamation point can be used. Dionysus acquiesced, but he was not happy. Then it came to a point where Dionysus specifically said, “uggggggghhhh,” but Apollo would only write the word “ugh.” Well, this was too much for Dionysus to bear. He exclaimed the meaning is changed when “Uggggggghhhh” becomes the simple “Ugh,” but Apollo argued the reader would understand the difference, besides, “uggggggghhhh,” is not even a real word. So Dionysus got angry and stomped the ground and refused to tell the rest of the story. Apollo said fine and mentioned he would write the rest of it himself. “Good luck,” murmured Dionysus under his breath as he walked away. 

“Message in a Bottle” 

A miniature boat scuttled back and forth in the inch of water at the bottom of the bottle. One day the miniature captain looked to his subordinate and said, “If all the water in this ocean (meaning in the bottle) represents man’s mind, then I have fathomed it all and now grow restless.” Outside of the glass, and imperceptible to the miniature men who could not see through the glass, the boat and bottle floated aimlessly on the Pacific Ocean, and as far as the horizon stretched, nothing but interminable water filled the span. 

“What is it?”  

To an old man: 

What is the meaning of life?
Suffering.
What is the meaning of suffering?
Pain.
What is the meaning of pain?
Nothing.

To a young man:
What is the meaning of life?
Love.
What is the meaning of love?
Happiness. 
What is the meaning of happiness?
Nothing. 

How does one survive?
Old Man: He doesn’t.
Young Man: Stay young. 

How does one stay young? 
Old Man: He doesn’t.
Young Man: He refuses to grow up. 

And when that fails? 
Both old and young: Death. 

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