Poetic Pyromania to prepare for NaPoWriMo 2017
Haunted by data, hounded by blog-bots, assailed by algorithms, poets have been reduced to human resources, fractionated, monetized and commodified like petrochemical residues of the antediluvian world. In keeping with that metaphor imposed upon us by ourselves, we await a mere spark to begin consuming our own fuel, flaming voraciously into poetic combustion. Through this incendiary process, we liberate the very energy that an unpoetic world seeks to label, quantify and merchandize. Flame, however, cannot be commodified—only intensified, suppressed, or extinguished. Elemental fire may be started by lightning, produced by physical friction, electro-chemical reaction, or started from a pre-existing blaze. Poetry is similar; whether sent from God as a bolt of epiphany, a spontaneous combustion, or as a transposed flame inspired by anterior works, April is our month for playing with metaphysical fire. It is thus that we, as elemental (or just mental) poets, refuse, at all levels (lyrical, cultural, mercantile, geologic, celestial and infernal, etc.) to be co-opted, commodified, and/or in any way politically corrected.
We poetic oilmen and women are the active nihilists of a nihilistic era. We locate promising sites, then we draw up, from below the poetic bedrock, raw inspiration. NaPoWriMo allows us to drill deep into the sedimentary layers of poetry and tap into the deposits of lyrical fuel trapped within. Some gets pumped up, some comes gushing spontaneously to the surface in a crude form. It can then be refined to varying degrees of flammability and into differing types of fuel; think diesel versus rocket fuel… one will take you further faster, but both are indeed fuel.
As oilmen and women, we pump our precious resource up in raw form from subterranean seas—the remains of lyric flora and fauna of a previous age buried under the silt of an inundation of data-driven global dullness. Through sheer creative will we set these deposits ablaze, to produce, out of the incoherent night that surrounds us, poetic illumination. In the light of our own flame, we cerebrate celebrate the utter uselessness of our artistic product—by continuing to create it, refine it, and then burn it up in a transcendent pyre of irrelevance. Thus, we wage uncompromising war against the powers and principalities of technoid global dominion. Our useless words, unread and unwanted, undermine the process of attempted global conquest by the unpoetic Enemy.
more a poetic screed. But sure was fun writing it !
Come over to my place soon:
National Poetry Writing Month is almost here.
from the rising of the sun on the first day,
to the setting of the sun on the last,
and everything in between-
it is a time to celebrate.
it is a time for poetry.
it is time for hidden authors to reveal-
works of art,
sharing our deepest feelings
with complete strangers,
placing thoughts on the chopping block
awaiting criticism and judgement;
but somehow, never having seen their face
it is a time to simply
be here for each other.
it is April.
"I'll be back," he said to me. Foolishly, I believed every
falsehood that came from the lips I once kissed. Little did he
know that those words were powerful beyond belief. Behind
closed doors, his selfishness had a hold on my soul and took
the life it withheld with ease. Not once did I complain because
with the beauty of love followed pain.
I never understood why I settled with a lie. More than twice,
my intuition told me that he didn't deserve an ounce of me.
That he never deserved a heart that gives selflessly. That his
negativity would get the best of me. But this experience reminded
me that every person has their season and it ends for a reason.
So I have embraced my mistakes, and I will love myself selfishly.
I gave my all to a person even with an exhausted soul.
Time after time, I made myself an afterthought for the sake
of his heart. Unfortunate events proved that he did not have
the heart to do the same. I freely gave myself to a man that
confused true love with lust. My selflessness entwined with his
selfishness, and my love slowly became suppressed from being
mistreated. With this, I know the importance of giving less love
to a loveless being. They are not aware of what they have when
their pride is what they live for.
I pray that your soul finds the comfort it deserves, and
that your inner strength makes way to the surface. The
shackles from the pain you've experienced want to restrain
your growth, and you cannot let them get away with such
a thing. Within you lies the fight of a God-fearing warrior.
With such power, you were born to be a force to be
reckoned with. May you never be disheartened for better
days are approaching. The moment you break free from
the chains of negativity, your spirit will return to its
Once again, I apologize for the delay.
I looked for temporary satisfation when your love
was absent. I understand it may be selfish of me
but waiting for its return is like waiting for the last
autumn leaf to make way to the earth -- the beauty
of summer fades, and Mother Nature loses her youth
as the arms that reach the heavens slowly die.
Truthfully, one could not forget intimate kisses shared
in silence, and the voice that has resonated in the mind
as the sweetest lullaby. If only it was possible to find joy
within the pain. Although laughing at such misery could
ease a weary heart, the perfect love still has too strong of
a hold to let go of the affection it has received.
Boulevard paved, cloud runnin' chase, to clear thoughts
Mindfulness, craved pounding in, raining pain sought
Free me! bound points pressing in, thorns? BE GONE! bought
padded Dr. Scholes soles.
Trail's bridge truss, wooden way leads to peace climbing
Lean in shoulder first, dig, dig, pistons legs pump hard
Muscles in tighter bundles demand enrichment
Slopes up, roll down, pleasure
for Oscar Wilde
If only love came easy.
Once exposed to its removal, its terror, the heart grows queasy.
How hard it can be
To know loving's unlovely
Side: The caught breath once the curtain falls,
Deadened sanctity when recent calls
Turn against self-esteem.
"Was it just a dream?";
"Was it a rue,
Temporary?"; "Was it true?"
Questions amount to nothing.
Answers only seem like bluffing.
I want to love you,
But I know the drill: Two,
Then one. One's pain is expectation,
One's guilt is association.
"Life is short—let them care";
I wait...I dream...I stare...