On Poetry
Sometimes I think I've become too cynical. My cynicism affords me an outlook on life that I consider to be far more realistic than that of idealistic fools, but it has also had many negative effects (aside from the crippling depression, which goes without saying).I used to write poems when I was younger (perhaps if I can dig some out from my closet, I'll post them here). I don't know if they were good or not, but they meant something to me. It was a sort of release, and it made me feel good to write them, even though they tended to be dark, or angry, or whatever. Lately I've grown too cynical to even try to write poems. Sometimes it seems pretentious,
as if spacing lines,
and making stupid rhymes,
makes a piece of writing
a work of art.
See what I mean? That's all you have to do to call yourself a poet, and the blogospere is littered with talentless hacks trying to call themselves poets. I have also found some good poetry (like yours, Hansy, if you're reading this), but it is such a rare thing. I especially hate cheesey, happy poems with rhymed couplets. They make me want to gag.
I am back at a point in my life where I can read poems and enjoy them. That's why I've been posting poetry here periodically from poets I enjoy, rather than attempting to create one of my own. The one's I've posted have meant something to me at the time I posted them, as a reflection of my mood at that moment. Perhaps one of these day's I'll overcome my cynicism enough to write some poems of my own again.
I was just reading a special section of today's Portsmouth Herald which included some letters home from soldiers who were killed in Iraq (shortly after writing the letters). Just before I saw the article, I had been searching for a good poem to post, and I found myself drawn to the excerpt below, which I am now inclined to post:
from "War is Kind" --by Steven Crane (1871-1900)
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom --
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
posted by Skrambled Egghead Reborn @ 1:55 PM
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