Portrait of a Pre-Madonna

Teen Pregnancy
Who is she that looketh forth as the morning,
fair as the moon, clear as the sun,
and terrible as an army with banners?
Song of Solomon 6:10 KJV

Her look is anything but clear
a vacant beaten stare, slight fear;
She finds it hard to concentrate
upon her swelling change of state.

The gaze within her drop-out eyes
makes diapers float in teenage skies
where infant-formula rains down
while strollers crawl through baby-town.

Sweet nubile thing, your growing seed
will reap a crop of constant need.
For now, let’s hope it plays out well
for baby-daddy Gabriel.

Or was he Adam to your Eve ?
(scenario easier to conceive.)
He lost his rib — became your man;
you spread your legs and life began.

Stuff Poetry Hates:

Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs . . .

Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,

Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly: ours the state,

Hymns to Gods who choked on vomit
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling . . . but ending comatose,

Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,

matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),

coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.

Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,

Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting—
all are blights upon our nation.

Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring, formulaic)
confounds—yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.

Lists like this are perhaps  the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.

On the Lyrical Eve

NaPo2015button1

Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven
is like a master of a house, who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.
Matthew 13:52 [ESV]

This will be my second year posting a poem per day during April for National Poetry Writing Month aka NaPoWriMo.

I must qualify my participation in this lyrical conflagration; I am bringing forth poems already written but never posted—which causes me to consider my poetic rationale: spontaneous gush vs. obsessive workmanship.

I used to believe that creative souls produce their most authentic work in a frenzied flow of inspiration. This is the modern myth of the Artist as oracle or prophet; a being so special she/he just HAS to get it out there in one inspired unburdening. To alter it is to make it less authentic; rather like vomiting or excretion, no?  But as I grew up and reconsidered things, I moved away from this model. I realized that derivative techniques like collage, “found poetry“, surrealist shock-art, dadaist mockery of previous paradigms and the ironic take on a well-known theme are all good fun, but in the end too easy. This approach cheapens the creative discourse and eventually tries to turn art into a “happening”, poetry into “automatic writing”, music into nihilistic cacophony, and so on.

Stream-of-consciousness dribbles, rants and visionary diatribes often (though not always) make for boring art; we are reminded that we have seen it many times before. Some do it very well—that is sure. I like surrealistic collage and quirky spontaneous juxtaposition, don’t get me wrong; but as a steady diet it will leave you artistically malnourished. We can’t all be dadaists or minimalist mystics . . . or even Zen haikuists. The other approach to art stresses craftsmanship and mastery and goes against the model of “Artist as mystically-inspired Other” which has been foisted upon us since the beginning of Modernism in the late 19th century.

So I confess—I am not really writing one-a-day for April. I am bringing out of my coffers amateur jewelry set with merely semi-precious stones. I have, however, been reworking, refining, polishing, and finishing these adornments for my loyal Connectees. They have been faithfully and obsessively crafted.

I invite you to read my poetry over the next 30 days. And remember—
you have the RIGHT to be offended !