After my recent post about why poems don't rhyme anymore the other day, I found an old poem of mine from secondary school that rhymes. I thought it was okay, if a bit depressing... Then I thought I'd post up this one and a newer one. The contrast is quite funny!!!
POEM FROM SECONDARY SCHOOL
Past, Present And Future.
The Past was yesterday’s nightmare,
Don’t look back, you might start to stare.
Don’t want to return to that place,
Most of it was an unfair race.
The Presents here, it’s a painful fight,
Keep on punching with all your might.
Today is ending, the lights are out,
The future is only full of doubt.
The futures coming, like an asteroid,
Already people are filling the voids.
No idea when time will end,
No idea what the future will send.
A RECENT POEM I'VE WRITTEN (from Exits/Origins)
discharged to duty a pole it/ truths
that are easy to bury but you can’t
bury me, or the print, ed. pages
you can’t buried me shaking in the morning shaping up the month with a pen and a
number / squashed with the wait for escarpment:
working on this age.
Fuck so satisfying when writhing in words/dialogue that scars underneath
the sound of ringing, I think about what they dreamt about and the empty notebook,
aside: secret verses
The hedge shook in sympathy when the balloon hit the twigs, stabbing the sky and
we all fall down, we all feel drowned, ringing words in my ears to say hello
-Is that all you want? Is that the means to errand?
The ghostly vision haunts him like the blank pages, a yawn that stretches for 49 sheets
until he scratches the words ‘these blank pages represent
the rest of my life’
and I’m sore, no sure, the pole it never dries/ ink drips from the fingertips
when curtains gather, my love. Imagine the blessed balloon is fit to burp, a stammer
into your consciousness, that falling
A name represents a fate? Don’t take it literary or fate becomes your ‘name’ / lean
back / hold your nose / submerge memory in the blush of the names on the arches –
scratch my own I’ll scratch my own in the notebook where
sigh lent louder than protest = HE UNFURNISHED
* So, as I said, there's space for both types in the world but I do prefer the lack of rhyme these days. But as you can see, I love sounds and playing on words, which I think also provide some rhythm. Anyway, after I've laid bare my 13 year old self, I'll head off now!