Saturday, August 2, 2014

Ninety Three . . .

Death of a Poet
By Stormcat

I read a poet who had lost his love and thought
of you. Of us. The why it feels. The standing,
on a ledge, no way down, no way up, save your
agency to accept or reject and that inability to
thus choose. There are words (derogatory and
venomous) words forbidden, rejected by choice,
by that same agency.

To loose one's love is horrible. But for a poet . . .
such is an existential crisis of the unquenchable
oeuvre. What is to become of all those exquisite
declarations of never-endingness. Such poetry
never to be discarded has become a lie. How can
a poet publish a lie? Thus it can never be read
again. Poetry diluted is moot.

And if his poetry is moot then that poet has no
purpose and life itself . . . ? Moot! Beauty ceases.
Nature withdraws. Stars no longer sparkle and
songbirds annoy. Flowers look like weeds and
food becomes tasteless. Music seems intrusive
but silence, intolerable. Left only is cowardly
nonexistence,  inebriation, death.



Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

8 comments:

  1. Methinks you are attributing too many altruistic qualities to poets. How can a poet publish a lie? Very easily. There is one who does not even use subtle disguise or metaphor and publishes his private text messages accompanied by character assassination jibes and them removes them after his victim has responded to invite negative commentary.He then proceeds to read himself into every poem his victim writes. Of course you would be familiar with this kind of ruse as I am.

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    1. Well, I personally don't like idealism but I also think that accepting the title of Poet is, by default, accepting a sacred trust to speak truth beautifully, dramatically, and/or powerfully. Anyone who violates that trust by speaking lies is unworthy to be called a poet no matter how beautifully, dramatically, and/or powerfully it is done. Of course the subterfuge you speak of is of equal disdain. As far as ideals go, they are impossible to achieve in any reality, but if they are used as guides and followed, they will lead to the appropriate destination.

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  2. you know, this is so true...to lose a love is an awful thing...but for a poet, even more so...because we are so observant, we see and feel and pay attention and commend things, touches, moments that pass through the fingers of others without notice.

    i loved this piece from you, very heartfelt.

    ps. thanks for your comment on my poem, i'm happy you enjoyed it! heh, i'm particularly inspired lately, maybe because my favorite season is nearing (fall). we should do a collaborative piece together. what do ya think? line for line..taking turns. would be interesting!

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  3. Ya, that how one feels for one minute , if one get's misunderstood ... it's like when the principal calls you to his office ... only worse ...

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    1. Thanks cat. The thing is that the pains of a minute seem to last forever. . . .

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  4. that last stanza is breathtaking....

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  5. This is an instant favourite. Would easily translate to a powerful recitation as performance poetry.

    I recall this quote by Anne Truitt, "Artists have no choice but to express their lives."

    Superbly penned. Loved it!

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