So who here writes poetry? Yep, I said poe - hey...
...
Oh...
So ... oh, really?
Such a pity, that poems should be relegated to the dark corners of mouldy cupboards, banished into the dark recesses of once 'emo' teenage days which no one speaks of anymore. Doesn't have to be this way. Shouldn't be this way. We may have grown a bit older, but the fear, the confusion, the angst, the frustration - all that do not go away. They stay, they linger, and in a darkened room deep deep in the night they taunt and whisper. And at times like those, the clean simple lines of a poem with their lyrical grace may seem like the solution to all the world's problems. That, and of course, a hot cup of tea.
Came across this little snippette today, lifted from a poem titled 'Misdirected Lust (Third Villanelle)' in the UniMelb creative writing anthology:
There is a man without words in a corner of a room with no walls
and no door to leave by,
no light and no air except that which has been consumed twice
before by
elegant men in regimental ware who have no feet to walk upon,
so instead they fly.
... [lines omitted]...
When, boy, did you first know that it was love and not some affair
of misdirected lust? By
the last day in May I discovered we had the same taste in words, the
same love of: 'but why'.
There is a man without words in a corner of a room with no walls
and no door to leave by.
no light and no air except that which has been consumed thrice
before by
ungentlemen-like men in fits of disfavour with the world they
created by
the seat of their pants for the stars that shine like golden coins in the
blue/black night sky.
He has never written a novel. He writes in tangled tongues without
lips and his words lie
like sleeping dogs he dare not wake for fear they may bite out his
tongue and cry:
'Let sleeping dogs lie!'
There is a man without words in a corner of a room with no walls
and no door to leave by.
Don't know about you, but I fell in love.
