Poetry and Pretense
I used to write a lot of bad poetry. Like every day, from age fifteen to age twenty-four. I believe that is the appropriate poetry age - I became less and less prolific after that. I’m sure there was a good one or two in there - my high school English teachers were impressed - but I’m indiscriminate in my love of poetry, and I don’t know a good one from Shinola, whether I’m reading or writing. I’ve studied poetry and critical thinking, and I still have no standards by which to judge a good poem, except for personal taste.
When I was about to marry my beloved Lillian, I wrote a sonnet because I wanted to express how I felt about her by composing something in a difficult, challenging form. I didn’t want it to be easy. Besides, I like sonnets. I just didn’t want to sound pretentious.
For those of you who don’t know poetic forms, here’s a fine definition from Oregon State University (to which I did not go):
Traditionally, a sonnet has fourteen lines of iambic pentameter linked by an intricate rhyme scheme. Iambic pentameter refers to its rhythm; basically, each line of the poem has ten syllables, and every other syllable is stressed.
I’m not sharing that sonnet here because it’s between my wife and me. I think it was pretty good. So does she, and that’s all that matters there.
Every once in a while, I feel compelled to write a poem. I still can’t tell if my stuff is good or just pretentious, but since I’ve always wanted to be a published poet (beyond my high school literary magazine in 1972), I will subject you, my readers, to a few choice ones. You can decide if it’s poetry or pretense.
This one, while unpublished, is, in fact, carved in stone! Or stamped in concrete, more like. I wrote it for a poetry contest held by the City of Monrovia, California in 2017. I won.
Foothills (for the city of Monrovia, CA)
Step off the street, be still
and feel the earth, its silent thrum.
Look up and hear the foothills whisper
an endless, timeless chant.
Watch the mountains, motionless,
yet rising toward eternity.
The prize was to have my poem pressed into the sidewalk - unsigned. Oh, well, part of my lifelong process of ego deflation, I guess. I think it’s somewhere on Magnolia Avenue near the railroad tracks, although I was picturing Myrtle Avenue when I wrote it.
I wrote this one shortly after Christmas, 2006.
James Brown Died While I Was in India
Somehow the news got through
To this place where the sun glistens like triple suns on the holy Narmada River,
We learned that The Hardest Working Man in Show Business lies finally still at home.
As the Brahmin priests intoned their prayers and made their offerings into the fiery mouth of God, Soul Brother Number One drew his last breath,
And today, as I try to fix my mind on God, it is the Godfather of Soul who dances into my meditation,
And after the mantra, I find myself repeating Please Please Please.
I don’t know exactly when in the past six years I wrote this one, but it was after reading Marcus Aurelius:
Purpose
To help each other hobble
Through this desert carnival
And act as if it matters, then
To be forgotten
Again.
Okay, that’s enough for now. If you enjoyed this little side trip, please share it.
If not, check in next time for something completely different.
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You are just fun and deep, and your writing too👌🏼
Very enlightening