I’d Rather ___ than Write A Poem :: Take That, Lit Class

Photo courtesy of dumais.us

(Please realize, before I go into this rant, that I am not some anti-poetry freak. Uh-UH. But I was tired of schoolwork, which tends to bring out the best in me. ;-) )

A poem? Me? Write a poem?
I’d rather spend the day
with my head between the pages of a tome
than write a poem.
I’d rather enjoy the pleasures of my home, indeed,
or let my mind just roam,
dwell upon the wisdom of those fellows o’er in Rome,
spell “chondriosome,”
than write a poem.
I’d sit at a desk in a four by four dome,
thinking of words that end with “ome”
rather than write a…
Oh.

Poetry is great to read, and sometimes fun to write,  but not after hours of homework. Blech.

What was the title of the last poem you wrote? Can’t remember? Write me one in the comments. I Triple-dog-dare ya’.

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8 thoughts on “I’d Rather ___ than Write A Poem :: Take That, Lit Class

  1. Good post, my friend, good post
    But, you know, what I’d like the most
    Is to go to bed, my friend, to bed
    For it is midnight and now I’m dead.

    Dead tired, that is…

  2. I write poems all the time, but I make sure mine DON’T rhyme and that they tell a story rather than express feelings (teenagers write too many of those).
    ——————————————-
    He swung his baton swiftly in his hand

    He made music with those fingers every night

    Pages and pages of symphonies and music,

    All welded into the perfect ninth phase

    Born in Bonn, and made exodus to Vienna,

    He and Joe studied the musical notes and all they formed

    Deafness handicapped his ears yet he held dedication to those notes

    With Quill in hand he would create

    Sonatas cascaded inside his mind

    The orchestra in his heart was a beautiful beast ready to be unleashed

    Years of melodious passion paved way for a reputation

    Though he could not hear the thundering applause, he continued on to write and create

    The last of the five kept him at peace

    From Diabelli to the beautiful Missa and the infamous Nine

    The last concert on the twenty-forth day

    Had meager money to pay and low expectations

    The last he completed was the Thirteenth Quarter

    For danger struck in the form of a virus

    As the pounding thunder and rain beat down upon the palace like a dragon with rage, he felt his life slip away

    Pity, pity—too late! Plaudite, amici, comedia finita est, for in heaven I shall hear.
    ——————————————-
    That’s the story of Beethoven. I call it Curse of the Ninth. Not bad for a 17 year old. If you’re interested in Space Dragon songs and stories, visit my blog, The Society On Da Run :) I hope you liked the poem.

  3. Ok, now that I’m hyped up about this whole poetry thing, I’m just gonna post the last poem I wrote (which was homework!). Even though I know you were hoping for a more creative response. =p

    Last Voyager

    In the dreary evening,
    The distant roar draws closer,
    A constant reminder of death.
    The Last Voyager and men groan alike,
    Resisting powerful currents,
    Who are eager to be my ruin.
    Gazing southward,
    I can almost imagine there is no danger.
    The panorama is surprisingly calm
    Compared to the turmoil churning inside my mind.
    No land dots the dark blue sky
    With purple clouds, pink rays.
    Three years,
    Now I teeter on the edge of the ocean.

    Shining sun, sultry air,
    Blue clothing flashes as hands shake in greeting.
    Laughter joins the natural chorus
    Of pelican cries,
    Smooth water lapping the harbor.
    Workers unfurl coils of rope.
    Inexperienced gentlemen,
    Wave farewell to dirty, childhood playmates.

    Thud-
    I slam to the deck floor.
    A shutter ripples through the Last Voyager,
    As if she too is afraid.
    Wood tears and scrapes bottom against the rocks.
    Standing, my eyes widen as I stare
    Down into the misty canyon.
    Rubbing salt water from my eyes,
    I turn my head to the shouting captain,
    And with a lurch,
    The free fall begins.

    Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…
    Warm blankets graze my fingers.
    I hear children running and chatting in the street.
    Slowly I breath again.
    The smell of fresh bread fills my nose,
    And my eyes slide open.
    A rumpled quilt rests over my feet.
    Gaining courage, I gaze around the beige room,
    And find a cat glaring at me from the corner.
    I meekly smile back.
    As I lightly hop from bed,
    A book rolls to the floor.
    Under Drake’s Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main
    Laughing I step to the door.
    This is a fine day.

  4. I don’t have a title yet, but here:

    What is a page but a holder of ink,
    And the ink, but a former of words?
    Is it not in the words that the worlds are formed and the world is evermore stirred?

    Is the medium naught but the sum,
    Of the message there scripted or scrawled?
    Is there nothing so grand about paper and hand, is the story and poetry all?

    Aye, surely I’ll say that the tale is most,
    That the words are a tome’s greatest worth,
    But covers to linger o’er, pages to finger o’er, these are yet treasures of earth.

    Try dusty old pages gone yellow with ages,
    The binding all eaten, the cover grown dim,
    Touch paper, don’t fumble, take care or you’ll crumble words lying safeguarded within.

    Fresh-pressed, crisp and white, crackling pages delight,
    Bright-black ink with a new story burning.
    What pleasures are found in the scent, in the sound, of a book with its pages a-turning.

    Aye, surely I’ll say that the tale is most,
    That the words are a tome’s greatest worth,
    But covers to linger o’er, pages to finger o’er, these are yet treasures of earth.

    • I love your poem and I love your use of o’er (I use that word a lot in my poems). Your poem took me out of my slight writer’s block :)

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