A Re...No, A De-Evolution

Scene 1 (Man enters scene, exasperated.  Woman is sitting at table.)

Man:  (Sigh)…Hey

Woman:  Hey, what’s wrong?  How was class?

Man:  Ugh.  It’s the same shit again, you know what it is.  We can talk about it later.  I’ve got some more poems to read for you from class!

Woman:  (excited) Yay!!  How terrible are they???

Man:  Oh, you thought last week’s were bad…these ones will put a smile on your face!  Here, read this one from your favorite guy first.

(Woman begins reading.  Stops after a few seconds.)

Woman:  (With contained laugher)  Oh…my…god.  Which guy is this again?

Man:  He’s the one who’s gonna be a professional photographer.  The guy who’s gonna take pictures and write beautiful captions for them, and that’s gonna be his life…

Woman:  Of course of course.

Man:  What’s your favorite line?  Let’s see if you liked the same one I did -

Woman:  Oh, it’s gotta be the third stanza:  “My creased leather wallet wishes it had more green to munch on”

Man:  (Laughs)  Oh yeah, that’s a good one - what about “There’s never enough dough to make the big cookie”?

Woman:  (Laughs)  Yeah, yeah.  Did anyone say anything this time at least?

Man:  No, no, it was the same today.  Everybody LOVED this poem apparently.  No one ever writes anything bad in this class.  Here’s another one for you, this was my second favorite today.

(Man hands woman a poem.  Woman reads for a few seconds.)

Woman:  Oh god!  Sooo pretentious! 

Man:  (Nodding) Yep…mmm hmmm…

Woman:  What’s the deal with the form here?

Man:  Oh, you know how we were introduced to Haiku like, 2 weeks ago?  Well, some people can’t give it up.  You know, because…

Woman:  (interrupting) …because it’s really easy to write?

Man:  Yeah, because they have no idea how it’s supposed to work because they weren’t taught how important…the relationship between image and haiku is…so they don’t give a shit and just use it because it’s the quickest and easiest thing to use…plus, since no one says anything fucking critical about anyone’s work, not even the Professor, then they can get away with it.  It’s just a quick ego boost for them.

Woman:   (seriously)  Is that why you’re in a bad mood?

Man:  Well, yeah.  It’s just the same shit, every day.  Plus, the girl who used the haiku didn’t even use the goddamn form right!  Not even the syllable count!  And everyone ate it up!

Woman:  Well, what about your poem?  Did they say anything about it?

Man:  No.  I got the stunned silence for 5 minutes.  I fucking hate that!  Just because I don’t say that much in class, just because I’m not buddy-buddy with some of these people, they go silent when I present something?  Bullshit...

Woman:  I bet.  Why don’t you criticize then?

Man:  Because I’m a chickenshit.  But really, I can’t because there’s no place for it in the class.  The only person who ever even comes close is the professor, and that’s never real criticism.

Woman:  What did she say about yours?

Man:  I don’t know, something about how I wasn’t clear enough with my images or something…I’ve never tried to write anything for this class, but I swear, if I tried, I’d be far better than this other crap.

Woman:  So do it…

Scene 2  (Man is typing at computer.  Woman is sitting in same spot, reading a book this time.)

Man:  (Typing)…ok, I’m done!  Can I read this to you, and you tell me what you think?

Woman:  Sure, go ahead.

Man:  Alright, the title is “The Beginning,” and <clears throat> okay.  Thank you for taking the time to visit this blog!  My hope with this blog is to create another place in our world where great, undiscovered poets can share their works, so that the world can understand what poetry is again, and remember how great it can be.  If you want to have your poems published on this blog, just e-mail me your submissions.  That being said, I will not publish EVERY poem I receive - but I will consider them all, and will respond to any submitters if they wish.  Thank you for visiting this blog, and please continue creating!

Woman:  (Pause for a few seconds after reading.  With a little shock)  Wow…that’s…kinda douchey.  You sure that’s what you wanna put out there?

Man:  (Offended)  Well, no, it’s not meant to be douchey!  I’m not trying to say I’m better than the people who will submit, I’m just making a disclaimer!

Woman:  Well, yeah, but - you said it in a very condescending way.  Pretty douchey. 

Man:  It’s ok, it doesn’t really matter.  No one’s going to visit this blog anyway.  What if I put my first sonnet on there as a sign of good faith?  You know, self-deprecating and what not…

Woman:  (With some resignation)  Yeah, fine, that’d work I guess.  I’m just glad you’re finally doing something about this.

Man:  Ok, here it is - (begins typing) “I know my poems aren’t always the greatest, and this just might be the proof…”

Love’s Melody

Perhaps this is the way that love begins:
A fearless passion that would inspire
a whirlwind of all the greatest sensations - 
the wanting heart beats hard with desire!
Yet carnal emotions dare not explain
love's full, bright candor or dark enclave.
Our greatest fear will forever remain
The bane of despair we ceaselessly crave:
to sing forever with passion and grace
a love song only one other can sing.
A song that all could not help but embrace;
such music sublime two true in love bring!
     A love song begins with one's hopeful tone;
     true love songs are never finished alone.

“…I hope you enjoyed that as much as it embarrasses me to put it on this…”

Scene 3  (Several months have passed; Man sits at computer.  Woman is out of scene, but still can be heard)

Man:  Man.  I don’t even know why I’m checking my e-mail for this blog anymore.

Woman:  What?  What was that?

Man:  Nothing, nothing.  I was just saying I don’t know why I even check this e-mail anymore.

Woman:  Yeah, well, I don’t know why you would either.  Did you even ever tell anyone about this blog or whatever?

Man:  Well, no, not exactly. 

Woman:  What’d you expect, you think the internet’s gonna take care of that for you?

Man:  (Laughing)  Yeah, kinda.

Woman:  Well, you can wait forever on that shit.  What do you think the odds are that someone’s just gonna happen to “stumble” upon your blog?  Oh, and, how many poems are on there that aren’t yours, compared to how many that are?

Man:  Oh, well, let’s see.  (Man scrolls and counts)  …there’s…16 from me, 4 from someone else.

Woman:  And…

Man:  …and those “someone else”-s came from other books.  Not e-mailers.

Woman:  There you go.  Are you sure this blog isn’t just for you?  Just a way to print out your poems so you can see them on the internet somewhere?

Man:  (Shaken)  Well, no, because there’s my disclaimer -

Woman:  (Interrupting)  Your douche disclaimer.  Even if I was someone who had a poem, and “stumbled” onto this blog, I wouldn’t submit it because of that.  Again, how many poems of yours have you had published?

Man:  (Ashamed) Well, technically…none.  But I did have someone publish one of my poems on their blog…

Woman:  Yeah, that doesn’t count.  And how many have you sent out to be published?

Man:  (More shaken, a little more depressed)  …about 40?

Woman:  Right.  So, let me get this straight.  You make a blog under the pretense that it’s a free forum to “advance poetry,” but you don’t tell anyone about it; you’ve sent your poems out to a bunch of places and they haven’t been published…and most of the poems that make up this blog are yours.  Right?

Man:  (Getting defensive)  Well yeah, but I sent those poems out to the wrong magazines!  The wrong publications!  I didn’t know then that I have to start out lower, I can’t just send a poem of mine to the Southern Review and expect it to be published…

Woman:  So why haven’t you sent out any more poems then?  Why do you keep putting them on this blog?

(Man sits in silence for a second.  Goes back to his computer and begins typing.)

Man:  (Typing)  “One day, possibly, this blog will open up to more people, and lots of different works will be on this - works that will help all involved make some difference in this world we live in.  For now, I am content with putting on work I've made, and some of my favorite poems.  I know it's been a little lopsided, but I will change that soon.  For now, this is my attempt to play with an iambic tetrameter with a Spenserian stanza.

The Song of 'I'

The winds’ first song blows swiftly by.

Its music is so sweet to hear

and steady as a mountain high.

The cool, crisp gust brings eyes to tear-

but others cannot listen here.

They hear each other wail and moan!

Such company betrays the ear:

I like it when I am alone.

It’s far more fair to be alone.

The pairs hold hands and speak in tongues

and softly hold each other close

to feel the heat from lovers lungs.

A sadness fills my heart for those

who settle with that life they chose.

I flee to nature’s dulcet tone

beyond the jagged tongues of foes.

I like it when I am alone.

It’s far more fair to be alone.

But oh- how tender their embrace:

an mmm… the touch of lips: a kiss;

How satisfying love must taste!

A touch of tongue electric; this

excited rush of limpid bliss!

If only they could learn to hone

their hearts to hear… but-  I digress.

It’s just as fair to be alone.

I like it when I am alone.

The wind is all the love I need

(but I can never hold the wind.)

That peace I found is all I need

(but I can never kiss the wind.)

The subtle songs of silence blend

to lesser lovely light unknown!

(forgive my heart, it never sinned…)

- I like it when I am alone.

It’s just as fair to be alone.

The wind could never break my heart

(it doesn’t have a heart to break.)

The peace it brings will never part

(nor does it give a love to take.)

But… tangent love I cannot make

from that content I’ve always known!

(I fear I’ve made a grave mistake…)

I like it that I am alone?!

It’s not as fair to be alone!!!

The pairs, they move along the shore

sublime beneath the twilight sky.

A lonely man finds peace no more –

How slow… the years… they pass me by.

A soft, swift wind, and flask of rye.

The song, it plays a different tone.

The empty requiem of ‘I’:

“I like it that I am alone.

It’s just as fair to be alone.”

Scene 4  (A month has passed.  Man is at his computer typing.  Woman out of scene, but still can be heard.)

Man:  (Typing)  “I wonder now why I didn't just call this whole thing "This Is My Poetry."  I have grown to look at this and understand it as one little corner of the internet that is all mine, that no one goes to - one where I can be completely honest with myself.  I like that a lot.  I can be honest, and explore the writing I like, love, and even hate.  I feel like I want it to stay this way.”

Woman:  (Somber, serious tone unheard before)  So now you’re calling it your own?

Man:  Well, yeah, I mean, it only makes sense.  This thing has been around for over a year and it’s been me this whole time on it.

Woman:  Have you sent out any more of your poems?  You have even more now…

Man:  No, no I haven’t.

Woman:  I see you’re still taking classes.  Poetry classes, writing classes.  Have you changed your mind about them?

Man:  (Stirred)  Well, no, not really.  It’s a different place, but it still seems to be the same old class.  I still get the stunned silence when I write something.  The only difference is now I fucking love it.

Woman:  So you use your blog as a vent now?  Or did you just give up?

Man:  (Contemplative, pausing)  …I don’t know.  (Returns to typing)  “Sometimes I feel like my references are too simple, my poems too plain to be worth much more consideration than one reading.  However, I see too many poems today by too many intelligent people become too intelligent for their own good.  If there is a message you wish to convey, to a simple audience, the simplest way to do it is the best way.”

Woman:  What’s the “simplest way” to get your message across immediately, if you haven’t given up?

Man:  (Weary)  I don’t know.  I imagine it’s criticism or something like that, in a classroom.

Woman:  I imagine that’s something you should understand.

Man:  (Returning to Typing)  “Smart writers, I feel, get bogged down too consistently in trying to exhibit their own cleverness; their own abilities.  When this happens, the tone, mood, message, climax, structure - everything about the poem is in jeopardy.  That is, unless, they are writing for a different audience.  If this is the case, then they can be as fearlessly arrogant as they wish.”

Woman:  Are you a smart writer?

Man:  I can’t say I am.  (Returns to Typing)  But let's forget all that for now.  This place is for me.  I will treat it that way.  So now, I will put up another poem, simple in its construction, but still poetically justified.

His One Night
 

A boy was born this night

My boy

With freedom in his eyes

Near wrecked

Ripped from his mother

Mottled with blood

Ready to ascend

his crystal stair.

You remember that night well

The celestial ocean split apart

wave upon wave rushing aside

to open the universe

I left the ward

went outside

to call to them

for him

Bursts of light reached across the sky -

- Such lights!

The stars burned with reckless abandon -

- A chorus of lights!

I called to them

cried for him

they carried his name

to where it burns forever:

you remember it well -

remember that night well

for Inside I found my woman alive

where tears shatter peace –

where free eyes

never see again

You remember it well

remember that night well

the night the heavens carried his name

my boy’s name

to where it burns forever…

in the heavens

and the heavens alone.

(Man finishes typing.  Gets up, and leaves computer.)

Woman:  “Poetically justified”?  What the fuck does that mean?

Scene 5  (Several months have passed.  Man enters scene, walks by computer.  Stops, thinks for a second, smiles to himself, and sits down.  He begins to type.)

Man:  (Typing)  I can't believe this blog hasn't taken off yet!  It should be soaring through the prevailing winds of cyberspace at this point, invading people's creative minds and conquering their empty souls!...  Haha.  What did I imagine this thing was supposed to be again?  I've only told her that this exists, and I'm pretty sure she hasn't read this in a long time.  Partly because it hasn't been contributed to in forever; partly because she reads anything I've written well before it goes on here.

Well, she hasn't read any of this.

The Dream
Soul is known in the hole
the time it takes to travel
It's a crime to be inside my mind
Dreams do not unravel.

I thought myself a poet once
Arrogance, Ignorance bliss
I was so much cooler back then
When I knew what I'd do with this

But now the road ain't so clear
Traffic jacked up other minds
Some greater, some later discovered
Most are farther behind

The crux underneath my dilemma
Crutched weakly with wry foundation
Starry lenses stand on a glass fountain
Balance light of lilies and strangulation

Stay in stasis in statum oasis
Static and stoic, a stalwart complacence
Statuesque faces sleep in stone cases
What world I live within

An honest hope; mine is simple
enough.  And yet, so hard to believe
In screams filling still rooms to blank faces
Do they clap just to make me leave

If I write for simple, merely my soul
what affirmation do I need
from hollow eyes, empty faces
the heirs and heiresses of the crossroads

And the cheers, they may satisfy
if well wishes fuel the soul;
Boos, rejection are contemporaries
in the halls of the honored dead.

When I stand on stage
and I ask you a question
answer my question
don't applaud me for asking

Your cheer is the opposition 
to what I want the most.
Your lax is my arch rival
but keep the host

Right?  Love is not required
like I require in my life.
Who is the apportioner
of my wife?

Age has come, a coming of age
the age I've reached avails no coming
Fronting the stage, the stage is a front
for a coming of age aging ages in coming

Curtain closes on stage alone
Opportune fortune reaps the reeking
Blind to my backside the band keeps playing
Blasting, air brush, gain wreaking

Delay to the curtain displays an uncertain
relation made of tenuous plans
Lucky for we - we like to agree
we shadows held in shy hands

In high school I learned of vectors
rays, lines, line segments
At infinium is still conjecture
rays aren't always straight.

Rays of the Sun are never unified
yet not one complains of inefficiency.
We make music, diffuse, and grow mystified
why fans don't fawn at the food of the door.

I startle myself until my time comes
My mind will laps and dreams fall
from my blushing mind into my hand.
My greatest mistake was to suffer withdrawal.

Gold is a silly metaphor
in a state of lethal taste
this guy's too kind, he's a killer
with that skin-eating smile on his face

I would alter the deal of my dream
had I not run the others out
My mind is regressing so successfully
an inevitable basement of doubt

Counting heartbeats is not way to live
imagining my organs isn't either
Steeping in the dread of my squishy design
is causing a common fever

(Man gets up from computer, leaves scene.)