Something Off-Beat

 

Enough of angry fixes, negro streets
incoherent poems and arrhythmic beats,
drug-addled mystics and feminized fools
who compose no further than breaking rules.
Junior Dadaists, after the fact;
dull poetry’s second, third, and fourth act.
Actual poetry exists for the page
and ought to be able to last an age.
Real poems are NOT composed on the tongue,
as are the ravings of the angry young.
Diarrhetic voidings, awash in words
that rain down upon the poetic herds
are not the same as life-giving waters
fit to refresh our sons and daughters.

Suck it up with your existential vacuum
from off the floor of that San Fran backroom.

 

 

PROMPT 28: try your hand at a meta-poem of your own
Meta-poem = a poem about poetry

METAPOETIC 2FORONE TODAY !

 

Bitter Poetaste in Mouth

Lightweight free-verse exploration,
withered ghosts and wisps of phrase,
breezy unamusing musings
barely raise

a titter, tear or lyric warning –
fail to reach a middling height;
then subside to shallow murmurs
(not quite).

Teenage existentialism
cryptic, dull confessional mush;
suitable for a poker-faced
unroyal flush.

Must you set this stuff in motion
fizzling through our universe:
half-bright comets leaving trails
of boring verse?

Incoherent thoughts meander
through your words like fish through nets
unable to ensnare your reader.
One forgets

whatever it was you started saying
(weirdly spaced, unpunctuated).
Could it be such thoughts are better
left unstated?

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March On, Oh My Soul

I am re-posting previous work during March.
Since 2014, I’ve published 30 original poems
for National Poetry Writing Month every April.

You can read more by clicking the NaPoWriMo widgets to the right

Lines Composed upon the Finished Perusal of a Large Volume of Poetry

The worst will be found toward the end of the book
When you’re scanning the lines of a weighty anthology.
Centuries have shaken what works can be shook,
What is old is refined—and I make no apology.

Angst-ridden ramblings, so fashionably bleak
Start appearing somewhere past the middle, I fear
With those modernist psyches, whose raggedly weak
And depressing confessions sling mud in the ear.

Like the scribblers of Suicide, brimming with bile
Or the autodestructive self-pitying boozer,
Whose quaint observations enshrining the vile
Are a crime against life and an art for the loser.

You ideologues, with your axes to grind,
Propagandizing causes in militant styles
Ought to stay in the hills, where the struggle is defined,
And spare us the old dialectical wiles.

The Feminist scribe, with her sex for a mouth,
Ever pressing her case, for fallopian reasons
Grows saggingly sterile. Her muses fly south
With the passing of harvests and goddessless seasons.

Absurdists, surrealists, and nihilist mystics
Whose hymns to destruction make glory of chaos
Should leave the black humor to God and ballistics.
Your poems, like Judas, are bound to betray us.

The Freudian flirt (whose neuroses abound),
And the Jungian shamans (their animas, too),
Ought to rest on their couches. Why should they be found
By the wellsprings of Spirit, whose guidance is true.

The art-lover’s lines gild a frame around Knowledge.
Their poems are like an art history course.
As they flit past the idols they studied in college
Their name-dropping odes are a grand tour-de-force.

Sixties drug-revelers, love beads a-jingle
And brothers dashiki-clad, howling at Nixon
No longer strike chords in my soul. Not a single sitar lick
Nor visions of hippie-chick vixen.

You rhymers and rappers of rhythms in sample
Whose words like a kick-drum send shock through old Whitey
Now cease from your chanting. The genre is ample.
Your gangstering paeans are too fly-by-nighty.

Revived Roman legions, who relish things Latin;
Your martial convictions inspire the hero.
But while you are looking for cities to flatten,
Remember: old Julius was nobler than Nero.

The theme of World Peace. This crops up near the ending:
A desperate hope for New-Agers and liberals,
Who cherish a dream of reality-bending
Through networking, magic, and energized crystals . . .

But what can be shaken shall perish, forgotten.
Anthologies show us that truth is enduring.
All praises and laurels shall prove misbegotten.
The Word become flesh is the most reassuring.

So I leave the anthology, closing its cover.
Three-quarters at least seemed like nonsense to me.
Yet still, I admit, I’m a poetry lover.
Let time do its work and in future—we’ll see . . .

Fool for the Muse

I enjoy checking other NaPoWriMo blogs as we await April Fool’s day.

Since 2014, I’ve published 30 original poems
for National Poetry Writing Month every April.

I am re-posting previous work during March.
You can read more by clicking the NaPoWriMo widgets to the right

    
Disabused of Muses

Poetry, you dazzled my eye
teased me with unearthly visions;
got me too high.

Primed my soul to fly to heaven
then marooned me upon the earth
sixed for seven.

You called across celestial shores
glowing in empyrean colors
then shut your doors.

Lost in your amusing mazes
I followed fast your golden thread
through dark phases.

Muse-abused and undelivered
my heartstrings wavered, stalled, then stopped—
arrows quivered.

Poetry, you’ve cheated on me;
winked and flirted, then escorted
Philosophy!

Spare me further cantos, curses,
keep your holy delirium,
unhinged verses . . .

On second thought, oh Lady cruel—
humiliate me. Lead me on.
(I’m still your fool.)

Dominatrix, queen of the word
for you I’ll suffer untold shame.
I’m undeterred.

RoxyMuse1
IMAGE CREDIT: 3bp.blogspot.com 
[Roxy Music album art: For Your Pleasure 1973]

 

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News of the Muse

This blog gets more views than usual during National Poetry Writing Month.
I enjoy checking other people’s blogs as well. Take a look at them so far.
To participate, you can submit your poetry blog HERE.

I have published 30 original poems every April for the last four years.
I am re-posting some older work during March.
You can read them by clicking on the NaPoWriMo widgets to the right

 

To a Progressive Poet

Your poems read as staggered prose;
the rhythm of the words escapes you.
One assumes, un-mused, you chose
a free-verse prison to run into.

You are modern. And it shows
in lack of structure, meter, beat.
Your emperor, set free of clothes
meanders on unsteady feet

exposed as naked, fending blows
from anarch subjects bored to tears
by cryptic, existential woes
and dreary imagery. One hears

within the verbiage you compose
a load of godless free-form tripe.
The lyrical ebb achieves new lows;
the scent is somewhat over-ripe . . .

Flux Danger
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