Thursday’s Poem – Poetry

I thought about posting a poem I wrote.

Never done it before, at least not that I can remember. And why not just post one? I’ve got a few of the little bastards sitting around, both on paper and in my head.

Tonight is as good as any other night.

Here goes:

Poetry

What I dislike the most,
is the pretentiousness in poetry.

The odd phrases, the thick language.

As if it is somehow required to confuse people,
first,
before you impress this shit out of them.

 

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About big jonny

The man, the legend. The guy who started it all back in the Year of Our Lord Beer, 2000, with a couple of pages worth of idiotic ranting hardcoded on some random porn site that would host anything you uploaded, a book called HTML for Dummies (which was completely appropriate), a bad attitude (which hasn’t much changed), and a Dell desktop running Win95 with 64 mgs of ram and a six gig hard drive. Those were the days. Then he went to law school. Go figure. Flagstaff, Arizona, USA

4 thoughts on “Thursday’s Poem – Poetry

  1. new web pages are like a new pair of underpants: at first they’re constrictive, but then they become a part of you.
    -Garth Algar

    i suppose i’ll come to like the new format, like i did with ebaumsworld. but for now i am a bit reluctant. i guess i’d better get used to it. wordup.

  2. Right/Write on, Noble Laureate.

    Modern poetry tends to be either sterile and ugly, or intentionally obtuse and incomprehensible.

    How many times have you read a contemporary poem and thought, I could have written that shit, but why would I want to? It’s like modern art which looks down on images which are merely representational.

    Seamus Heaney is one I like, though.

    (This is posted on the Nobel Laureates site.)

    The Haw Lantern

    The wintry haw is burning out of season,
    crab of the thorn, a small light for small people,
    wanting no more from them but that they keep
    the wick of self-respect from dying out,
    not having to blind them with illumination.

    But sometimes when your breath plumes in the frost
    it takes the roaming shape of Diogenes
    with his lantern, seeking one just man;
    so you end up scrutinized from behind the haw
    he holds up at eye-level on its twig,
    and you flinch before its bonded pith and stone,
    its blood-prick that you wish would test and clear you,
    its pecked-at ripeness that scans you, then moves on.

    By Seamus Heaney
    From “The Haw Lantern”, 1987