God bless every cause
and every contradiction,
every asshole with an idea.
Give them bullhorns aplenty
and acolytes.
Let their visions take root
in the face of ridicule
or fall under their own weight.
Give them freedom always,
but grant them no power
greater than their voice.
Author Archives: Marc Gilbert
Gone Fishing
Lone spearmen walk the banks,
Sharp-eyed and selective,
they choose their prey:
A meal reserved for few.
The act itself, exclusive.
Others prefer hooks,
taut lines, and sinkers—
bells on their poles.
They wait in lawn chairs
talking weather.
Bottom-feeding
at the sound of a strike.
Ships, less particular,
use nets. No time
for shoreline discrimination,
they sort their catch later,
or not at all
then sell it to the masses
by the pound.
I prefer a bobber,
red and white,
rhythmic.
I can go for days without a bite.
Sweet
This patch could be any other:
A spot of grass below
a blue and clouded canvas
and I, an ancient king
eating apples from a nearby tree,
reveling in my royalty,
or the simple glory of the day.
In fact, I could be most anyone,
from any time or station
and the fruit would be as sweet.
Mephisto & Yahweh Bounce a Spliff
Mephisto:
Hit this, Bitch… I mean, Your Honor.
Watch your monkeys dance,
when I pull their strings and dangly bits
and offer them a chance.
At what? Who cares?
It hardly matters.
Offer one a crown.
Some will fight and some will follow,
but all are going down.
Yahweh:
Bitch?, your best?
You never were creative,
but I guess that I’m to blame.
‘Mephisto’, though’s a disappointment,
You’ve shortened up your name.
A ganja conch, how quaint. Oh blimey,
have you got a light?
Of course you do,
what was I thinking?
Damn, dis stuff is tight.
Mephisto:
Man, Oh Man, what are you saying?
Gimme back that shit.
I had them in your little garden—
She for apples, he for tits.
I’ve LoL’d throughout the ages,
delighted in their wars.
Helen launched a thousand ships,
but I invented whores.
Yahweh:
Dude, pass that back.
I’ll make confession—
One you need to hear.
Those monkeys are your own obsession.
I’ve moved on and
I don’t care.
Love Redux
And you would have me share—
Are you crazy?
What don’t you get about insane?
My will is a warm straight jacket
Lending steel and spine—
Invertebrate,
a jellyfish of eyes
and quick emotions.
I jumble my words
and choke on anger.
I can stare down the devil
or wither at a song.
Duty, I understand,
and obligation—
I am my word
and my word can be anything.
My creditors can be angels or whores.
Once upon a time I wrote you a hero,
A virtuous knight, a champion.
We enjoyed the fiction,
content to play fools.
Only, I wasn’t acting.
I have always been a fool.
Let me lie to you a lifetime.
Don’t ask me to share,
Just pretend that you still need me.
I am lost without this role.
Love
She asked me what I meant and I fell silent,
and falling dumb, I fell upon my knees.
To mean is to maintain in spite of violence,
a steady and illusionary peace.
I battered her with doubt, I begged for something,
anything by which to be defined.
I am, it is, they are – Dear God, have mercy:
A stranger in a world to which I’m blind.
“Love”, she said, distressed, as if an answer.
I lost myself a moment in her eyes.
I rose both to her need and to embrace her
and spoke a gift of comfort and of lies.
More on Forms
The topic of traditional verse forms comes up often in the poetry section over at the mywriterscircle.com. Questions like: Is formal poetry even valid today? Is it too hard for beginners? Should they avoid forms altogether or at least wait until they are more comfortable writing in general? The following is modified from a reply I posted to one of these topics.
A newer poet posted a rhyming poem. The rhymes were forced and the poem had no detectable metrical structure. One suggestion made was for the poet to abandon their attempt at rhyming verse and to focus on what they wanted to say. It was a thoughtful suggestion and presents an approach that may work for many. Another approach, and one I advocate, is to learn the building blocks of metrical verse through study and imitation. I think this approach will serve the poet throughout their life regardless of their intend to work in form or not.
Poetry evolved. It is a mistake to assume that at some magic point in time poets cast off their shackles and started writing ‘real’ poetry. It is equally a mistake to assume that the tools and techniques put to use effectively in the past are irrelevant to modern expression. Every poem, or at least every poem worth reading, has a form. The poet is creating a soundscape to carry their meaning and all the emotion appropriate (in the sense that it conforms to the poet’s intent) to it. Otherwise every utterance is a poem and all definition is pointless.
At a minimum we should agree that a poem tries to say something in a purposeful and specific way. That way is the poem’s form. Seen in this light, good free verse is not formless. Its form is organic. The idea that it is easier to write good free verse than in a traditional form is simply false.
There is a creative tension between the artist and their medium regardless of what that medium is. It’s kind of the “necessity is the mother of invention” idea. The problem in poetry of relying on what you have to say is that what most of us have to say is not all that earth-shattering. Worse than that, someone has certainly beat us to the punch. As poets we count on this. We are hoping for a connection. We want our words to resonate with the reader. What we can do, is say it in a way that is pleasing, that engages the readers senses, appeals to their common humanity, and makes them think. Uniqueness does not need to be forced. It is a given.
If a young poet is bending their content to fit a rhyme, the problem is not the rhyme, it’s more than likely a weakness of vocabulary or the creative faculty to rephrase exactly what they want to express in a manner that fits their medium. This effort is what forces the formal artist to get creative. I will add that the effort often drives the poet to examine their idea(s) intimately. The effort itself forces them to know what they want to say. I think it is in this sense that Winters viewed poetry as a form of discovery.
Young poets focused too heavily on just saying it run the serious risk of counting solely on moral judgements, political affiliations, and fashions of thought. Please don’t misunderstand, there are many talented people out there. Some with the such raw ability that they will find their voice regardless. But, if we are talking about young people of average genius, telling them that expression is enough and to ‘just go with it’ is destructive to them as artists and destructive to the art as a whole. Its effect on modern poetry can be read in reams and reams of agenda-based nonsense, sentimental drivel, and lowest-common-denominator sexualization that lost even its shock value decades ago.
I’ve known people in the visual arts. To a one, regardless of style, they have a strong foundational understanding of classical technique. This foundation is viewed as core competence and provides them with material for their own innovations. Musicians, if they are worth there salt, know at least some measure of theory. When it comes to poetry however many aspiring poets operate under the assumption that centuries of history and the evolution of their art can be dismissed. Self expression may be therapeutic and political expression may be socially valuable, but they are not art. They can be expressed through art and a poet that want to address the valid issues of their day to effect should know at least the foundational building blocks of what that art is.
Again. I’m not advocating everyone or anyone go back to writing sonnets (it won’t hurt), but I do think young people who want to be poets should know the history of their art and appreciate that at one time, the forms that are now considered staid and stale were once radical innovations capable of extreme emotional and rhetorical power. That these techniques can inform and enrich their own poems. And that the best way to express yourself effectively is to know how to speak. This means having all the tools of our literary heritage on our palettes whether we chose to use them in a particular work or not.
Joy
I found my voice under a linden tree
where white dogs rolled in fallen seeds—
My eloquence, a simple smile
that spoke forever for a while.
Snooze
My alarm clock shrieks out
’till I slap it a promise—
“15 more minutes
and I’ll slap you again.”
Puddles
The street is peopled and gray:
Dots flee raindrops.
Buses don’t care—
Indifferent to puddles
they splash their way to the next stop,
denting the herd,
culling the careless.