"buk" poems - Hello Poetry

(I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.) I. There are the balladeers, Working in service of their inner Service, (Though, despite the seeming impossibility, Their hackneyed verse is even worse) Creating tortuous rhyme Which slows down labyrinthine narratives Ending up in some deus ex machine So implausible that it would make Euripides blush (Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile Or sudden viral contagion; Would that their creators meet such a fate!) II. I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers, But to bury them. They are an earnest lot, (Lord knows that they are earnest) And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme (Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy) And hang the cost. Though their narratives are head-scratching things, And their iambs proceed with the steadiness Of a nonagenarian church pianist Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw, They are content, nay, proud of their work Because babble rhymes with Scrabble (Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter, They have the former down to an art.) III. Let us not forget the Buk-zombies, Those apostles of aphorism, Most of whom speak of their departed deity As if he were an old drinking buddy (Never mind that most of them were two or three Or perhaps not even a bad idea In the back seat of some mom’s Buick When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.) One’s mind is boggled whilst considering The expanse of the bar required to accommodate Everyone who would like to (Or worse, have claimed to) Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round. They are a sullen horde, this lot, Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull. IV. Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls (For they shall have none upon ours.) They feel so many things so deeply As such things have never been felt before (They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass, Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no, They have all read their Plath.) It is, from the moment they arise in the morning Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them, All too much for them, And they bravely face the days Until such time they care bear to take action And fling themselves from some convenient precipice. We should, as a service to them and ourselves, Ensure the soles of their shoes Are sufficiently worn and slippery. (I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.)

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Jan 12, 2017

Jan 12, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC

wk-kortas

Poets (A Hate Song)

(I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.) I. There are the balladeers, Working in service of their inner Service, (Though, despite the seeming impossibility, Their hackneyed verse is even worse) Creating tortuous rhyme Which slows down labyrinthine narratives Ending up in some deus ex machine So implausible that it would make Euripides blush (Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile Or sudden viral contagion; Would that their creators meet such a fate!) II. I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers, But to bury them. They are an earnest lot, (Lord knows that they are earnest) And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme (Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy) And hang the cost. Though their narratives are head-scratching things, And their iambs proceed with the steadiness Of a nonagenarian church pianist Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw, They are content, nay, proud of their work Because babble rhymes with Scrabble (Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter, They have the former down to an art.) III. Let us not forget the Buk-zombies, Those apostles of aphorism, Most of whom speak of their departed deity As if he were an old drinking buddy (Never mind that most of them were two or three Or perhaps not even a bad idea In the back seat of some mom’s Buick When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.) One’s mind is boggled whilst considering The expanse of the bar required to accommodate Everyone who would like to (Or worse, have claimed to) Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round. They are a sullen horde, this lot, Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull. IV. Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls (For they shall have none upon ours.) They feel so many things so deeply As such things have never been felt before (They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass, Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no, They have all read their Plath.) It is, from the moment they arise in the morning Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them, All too much for them, And they bravely face the days Until such time they care bear to take action And fling themselves from some convenient precipice. We should, as a service to them and ourselves, Ensure the soles of their shoes Are sufficiently worn and slippery. (I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.)