Monthly Archives: May 2010

A song for a star

You say I’ve never sung you songs 
in all this time — ten years along — 
which proves, to some degree, 
how much I love you. 
You’ve found the time, you often say, 
to write about and sing and play 
so many other topics; 
is that not true? 

And when I offer in defense
that love is an experience
which falls beyond the edges
of expression,
you laugh and say, such an excuse
is, in its own way, living proof;
that there is no song
is its own confession.

But if my love could be contained
in some trite, overwrought refrain
composed to please the ear,
I would not claim it.
Inside a thousand symphonies,
in whispered wind through ancient trees,
no simply melody would dare
contain it.

So I will write no other song;
and if you think me in the wrong,
or simply without feeling,
I can bear it.
For my love is no simple verse
for greeting cards, or even worse;
What good are words?
They only can declare it.

You say I never sing to you
of how my love is strong and true,
and wish for me to come
and serenade you.
Under your window, in the night,
beneath the moon’s soft glowing light,
you wish a lover’s tune
that I should play you.

But if my love could be so sung,
each drop of life thus from it wrung
in sentimental tones,
how could it move you?
unless you felt the singer’s core,
and knew that there was something more
than simple words,
would it not just pass through you?

My song for you is ten years wide;
I cannot split or subdivide
one hour or two apart
to try and woo you.
I sing it every day and night;
the verses may not be quite right,
but they each speak
about, and of, and to you.

I love you.  Is that plain enough?
I have no masquerade or bluff,
no other way than what I am
to show it.
And ten more years are not enough
to finish it, it is still rough.
I only hope that in your heart
you know it.

19 MAY 2010

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I am so sick of poets

I am so sick of poets, in real life and found online;
how they tend to wax poetic, and pretend to be sublime
when describing some quite minuscule and unimportant thing:
the dewdrop on the lily, a mosquito’s lacy wing.

With pretense they have pretensions, and expect to be profound;
particularly when their fancy talk has drawn a crowd around,
and every word that drops like nectar from their honeyed lips
is guaranteed to break a heart, or at least, sink a ship.

But worse are poem lovers: those sad, sycophantic thralls
who quote their favorite bards by name whilst walking through the halls,
and without grace or courtesy, expose the world to verse
that often only merely stinks, but sometimes, is much worse.

Not everyone can hold a tune, or expect that their voice
will earn them any supper, if the listener has a choice.
Likewise, because you cast in rhyme a metaphor or two,
and hang a shingle (or a website), does not make true

that you are either poet, or can recognize the same;
such things are proven over time, and not by just a name
applied by those who dare not prick your bubble of esteem
for fear their own imagined greatness will be robbed of steam.

I am so sick of poets; every single one I’ve met
is either spent and sick and sad, or hasn’t happened yet.
In either case, I have no interest in their point of view
unless it can be spoken in a simple phrase or two

that doesn’t count on me to picture some fantastic scene,
and waste my time imagining I know just what they mean.
Dispense with all that sentiment, and vivid imagery;
a life that needs a poet is a boring life, indeed.

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Art is required

If you would this sad world improve: a battle cease, a mountain move, or seek to build up or destroy a single thought of fear or joy, there is one place alone to start. You must teach all your children art.

Imagination is the key.

By thoughts alone there come to be great mysteries, faith and belief in gods and demons, kings and chiefs; in justice and equality, in separating I and Thee.

So teach the arts, and music, too, in your religion, path or school. To have adherents worth a damn, they must imagine what “I AM” you would propose designed the world, created life, or wrote the rules.

Imagination is required.

Without it, none can be inspired to see beyond their own small selves, or care for something else that dwells beyond the sight and smell and touch; and such a life is not worth much. It does not toil, nor hope nor try, imagining no reason why, nor answer worth the seeking out.

Art teaches balance: faith and doubt; without it, gods are merely rules: like architecture without tools.

Teach art to all your children, then; for they must learn how to pretend if they would use your sacred texts for more than mindless genuflects or rote performance of some rite that without teeth, has lost its bite.

Imagination is the key.

Without it, all gods cease to be. Existence becomes drudge and trial, an endless chasm of denial where anything we do not see does not exist and can not be.

05 MAY 2010

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