I wrote this poem during Fall semester while having a hard day and while considering going away from the PhD and towards creative writing. I've decided it's pretty good and worth publishing--even if only my English major friends appreciate it.
Your ghosts--
They lie with me
in grey matter,
conspirators
of the worst kind.
They squelch my voice
with halting choke,
beat my brains out:
Literary
Dictators divine!
I see you would
frame me between
lines and pages,
Magnanimous--
up to a point.
"Here, no further
mayest thou go."
Never to be
anthologized
or widely read.
"Pay us homage
and perhaps then
we will write your
stone epitaph--
unworthy for water."
I can hear your
silent judgments--
nay, screaming fiery
admonitions--
wishing me unwell.
Leave me alone
Milton. Keats, please
withdraw your hand.
Shakespeare! Redact
thy airy nothings!
I would burn your
works, forsake them
to fire, and insert
stark emptiness
in their absence
To be able
to turn a phrase
without thy mean
influences--
maligning presences all.
Generations
wallow in your
slick afterbirth.
We are raised up,
but doomed to fail.
[Keep Following. I'm perfecting a theory on women's hair.]
No comments:
Post a Comment