Poetry

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Revision as of 23:46, 11 December 2009 by Woozle (talk | contribs) (New page: ==About== * sort of a beat poem * '''written''': 1997-11-18, in Appleton WI ==Words== : Some poetry came up to me and said to take a look. : I thought "okay, I'm not busy today" as I calml...)
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About

  • sort of a beat poem
  • written: 1997-11-18, in Appleton WI

Words

Some poetry came up to me and said to take a look.
I thought "okay, I'm not busy today" as I calmly opened the book.
I thought what I might see inside would give me inspiration
and help me understand the world, my life, my generation.
I read some lines from "Introduction: Why I Wrote This Stuff"
and thought "this is a bit long-winded; perhaps I've had enough."
I skipped ahead to Poem 1, "The Day That Everyone Died"
and thought "Aha! Now here we'll find something with substance inside."
Instead it was a long and curious combination of words --
something about... mountains and cars and highways and beaches and birds --
with no particular context to give me a workable clue
why any of this should matter too much to me, the author, or you.
"Hey poetry!" I said at last, "Please tell me where to read
something relevant in your pages -- that's really all I need..
Everyone says you're really great, I'd hate to be a bore
when someone asks me how you were and I begin to snore."
"Try chapter 3 page 91, 'A Sonnet to My Heart' --
that one's a classic, so I'm told; It's deep and tragic and art.
It took five semioticians to hold it, and two more to take it apart."
Arty indeed the sonnet was, just as advertised --
with power and passion and majesty, and a bag of chips besides;
aswirl with flavors bittersweet, aromas gritty and deep
(just like the coffee I had to fix to keep from falling asleep).
I guess this means I'm cynical. Should I apologize
when words that humble millions are a jumble in my eyes?
When thought seem disconnected instead of powerful and true,
I gotta call it like I see it -- wouldn't you?
The poetry looked hesitant and thoughtfully scratched its chin
It started to speak a couple of times, unsure of how to begin.
At last, it breathed a tiny sigh, and said with a small grin:
"It's just like Armstrong used to say, in the era of Big Band:
Of jazz, he said 'if you have to ask, you ain't never gonna understand.'"
The poetry gave me a pat on the head and solemnly shook my hand.
"Hey poetry! Come back to me! I thought you had something to say!"
But as easily as it came to me, it quietly slipped away.