Saturday, June 18, 2011

Broken pencil poetry. Non-poetry

I used to hate poems. School made me believe that all they were ever good for was memorising and then reciting them in class. They were invariably syrupy and whiny. And they often rhymed too much.

When we got older, we had to explain the poems we learned. Some were easy, straightforward. Some were extremely intricate and we could almost feel the poet's ghost standing behind us, grinning at us racking our brains to solve their mysteries. I got pretty good at it. I started liking it. I even found a poet whose writings I really liked.


One day, I thought I'd do it myself. My first poem had a simple paired rhyme and consisted of a lot of clashing elements. To put it simply, it was horrible. I hope I've come a long way since then...

This is my one experimental poem about poetry, which they call "ars poetica". The whole poem is a protest against the daunting white paper and against all the expectations people have of poetry. There is a rhyme, but it is covered. It's my little "rebel piece" and I'm rather proud of it.

I wonder if you'll guess whom it is addressed to...

Non-poetry
25th October 2005


It's cold. This paper I'm lying in
Is burning inside my skin and this
Enormous pencil descends, about
To tear my mind to shreds, impaled
Into my skull with all the words bled out
Of my screeching heart, my brains scattered about on
That immaculate white surface to be written upon. I
Lie there, watching my ideas die, something
I never had, yet to which I fought to cling, the mind
I thought had been my own, that time my eyes were blind. Standing
In front of me you watch me straining, the wreck,
You watch as the rhyme slides around my neck, slit,
A trochaic rhythm for a heartbeat, grinning
At your contempt; my helplessness marring this pure,
Pure image of perfect, sweet and demure poetry.
You sneer and turn away from this cavity, appalled,
You're me, you're black, I'm mad, we're cold. See,
You have no more place to flee to -
I hurl my existence at you and hit
You with it on your head, hear your shell split in two,
See you fall dead, smile and drawl 'you innocent fool'.

Epilogue: Maybe now I can get some work done...

4 comments:

  1. Welcome Back, Lavi! I see you've put up a new profile picture to mark your return :)

    Wow! This poem certainly is powerfully expressive! Lots of knife-edged images. You had fun composing it, didn't you? My guess as to whom it's addressed...could it be to the rebellious poet in you? A kind of a monologue to yourself, perhaps? Please enlighten us!!!

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  2. Thank you! Work has been running me down. Hopefully, I will still have another book to translate soon.

    The new photo is actually old... The old one was rather austere. I will use it for my CV :D

    Thank you for the compliments. Yes, you got me, I was writing this to myself. To the person who would have nothing to do with the rebel, but can't help it, since the two pieces are stuck together.

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  3. That was an awesome poem! Thanks for dropping by. I am now one of your faithful followers :)

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  4. I was thinking it was to your rebel in the closet also but I guess you confirmed that already with Desiree. Nicely done.
    As for your comment on my post I agree the Bible is kind of a heavy book to hit someone with. :)

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