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An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch

The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.

The prosecutor alleged himself most artful (and best-dressed);
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.

The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.

The prosecutor began his case by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene," he screamed, "to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society), well aware of his notoriety,
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet. Just look—his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar! He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be . . . the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster!"
The jury left, in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair, "Might I not answer to my peers?"
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.

Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea and Poetry Life & Times
Serendipity Mar 24
Do I write for an audience
or for myself.
There is a struggle
to distinguish between
the voices of critics
in my head
and my voice
of reason.
About Costumes and Customs


Wear, wear whatever you dare,
Tho, the global locality has no morality...


Animals with human customs,
Humans with animal costumes
Form the world into a modest mode-


In which the smartest ones are silent
While the mass dress in rumbling drunkness,
In happy hues of the humbling violent,
Of the primitive ****-geniuses.


Does ****** equal with the human nature?
Which? Human as savage or creature?
Born or grown?
While sensations design human customs,
Is predestination more than a fake costume?


Does the world hold anything divine?
While we follow an immoral aurora-
Its warming colours in a frozen desert,
That implies no divine unseen scenes?


Questions are colorless, unseen but existing,
Alike to God's infinite fineness-
Probing our customs if they are probed.


Methink costumes as a colorful ocean,
Mesee customs as the change of the world.


We sink in the dying world's dying ocean.
19.02.2018
ruqayyah Feb 2019
how critics
are merely
onlookers.
"maybe if you had a  business that you were passionate about then you would know what it takes to run a  business but you don't"
JDL Nov 2018
You must do it the right way
YOUR way is the only write way

They say nothing rhymes with orange
Well I am here to encourage

Yeah, go ahead and laugh at it
You don’t even know the half of it

Our poetry is for us, ourselves
Whether you’re ninety nine, or twelve

We commune within our souls
Another etch upon our scrolls

Our soul inverted, exposed
Something only we compose

Don’t ever be discouraged
Your writing is encouraged!
HePo seems to be a very positive place for poets, but for those of you who have dealt with negativity about your poems, this is for you.

Also, for you critics out there, this is only my second “rap” poem so be nice plz. ;)
Positives feedback is of course always encouraged. :)
Sergio Esteban Oct 2018
Nothing matters to me
I might as well be
In a different galaxy
I’m disconnected from reality
I sleep my nights dreaming
I could be someone else
And lose sight of me

I hate my anatomy
Chemical bonds gone wrong
And I choose to dissect
Each and every one
I never lose focus when I criticize
My imperfections
I intend to improve myself
But that won’t change my perception

And there you go
I figure you’re prefect
In every sense of the word
Nothing can stop you
Not even the cosmos themselves

But you’re just like me
A flawed human
In this world full of impurities
We bend like metal
And sway
Wherever the wind takes us

That’s the price we pay
Each and every day
Our insecurities
Hide the best of us
But we wake up in the morning
And continue life

But one thing for sure
We’ll keep fighting  
Until we perish
Life can be beautiful
Never forget it
Allison Wonder Oct 2018
You feel so ignorant
When you share and express
Everything that haunts you
And what makes you a mess.

Yet nobody listens
Nobody seems to care
Unwilling to lend help
Or even say a prayer.

But once it's their turn
To cry on your shoulder
Your existence is essential
Forcing you to grow colder.

Don't take time for yourself
Accusations you've gone ghost
Even if being alone is
What you really need most.
Allison Wonder © 2018
the cross of the critics
nailed the duo with a despise
they showed no mercy
for the pair's demise

crucified
crucified
by the venom of a viper's bite
crucified
crucified
there wasn't any scrap of respite
crucified
crucified
in a rancorous mean spite

the pack of detractors
wanted the dyad beaten down
so they served up a caustic vitriol
to claim an undeserved crown

crucified
crucified
savage the meter's punishment
crucified
crucified
ever vile this scathing torment
crucified
crucified
none being fair in treatment

the cross of the critics
nailed the duo with a despise
they showed no mercy
for the pair's demise
NB: I've used the poetic device of repetition in the piece.
Shahid Khan Apr 2018
Oh, the critics,
When you use,
Your fleshy and sticky tongues,
Or,
When,
You scrawl your sharp pens,
To peel the skin,
Of your alleged offenders,
Then,
You look like a butcher,
Chopping and mincing the meat and bones,
Or you like a vulture,
Sipping the blood of a half-dead cattle,
Come shed your literary arrogance,
And wrap your forked tongue,
In a cozy shawl of praise,
And prove that,
To correct the torn skin,
A pair of surgeon’s scissors is needed,
And not a butcher’s knife,
For sure…….
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