(no subject)
Mkay.
A certain journal decided to be a BASTARD, A MOTHER%&**ING BASTARD, and not work.
Even though it would've been great.
But oh well. Too bad, too, cuz I kinda liked that username. But alas....
Now I can actually comment again, and truth be told, I value that ability far more than a cool username.
So yeah, expect ACTUAL comments from the *quote unquote* "underground".
And I'm desperately trying to revive my muse....I've been doing so since 'My Last Chance' started to die, and I came up with this.
Poems are a poets supposed legacy to the world. Why then do we seem to believe that our acclamation is worth anything at all?
A poet labors over his work with all of his heart, he pours his life's blood out through the tip of a pen, he worships a blank sheet as others do temples of silver and gold, and what is our response? We turn these noble Dantes, these venerable Donnes into genteel aloof beings affected more by the sight of a ham sandwich than the sork of their hearts. And we somehow think that out respect is worth more than a poems survival!
We turn them into pronouns, give these masterpeices titles such as 'Classics' and 'Masters', and this is supposed to be worth a damn! This is supposed to make a poet proud!
Perhaps I am mistaken, perhaps these titles and praises do appeal to some. But to my eye, there is no greater title than 'Poet', no greater praise then the gratification of having ones work survive after ones name has long since disappeared from the memories of men.
E fin.
A certain journal decided to be a BASTARD, A MOTHER%&**ING BASTARD, and not work.
Even though it would've been great.
But oh well. Too bad, too, cuz I kinda liked that username. But alas....
Now I can actually comment again, and truth be told, I value that ability far more than a cool username.
So yeah, expect ACTUAL comments from the *quote unquote* "underground".
And I'm desperately trying to revive my muse....I've been doing so since 'My Last Chance' started to die, and I came up with this.
Poems are a poets supposed legacy to the world. Why then do we seem to believe that our acclamation is worth anything at all?
A poet labors over his work with all of his heart, he pours his life's blood out through the tip of a pen, he worships a blank sheet as others do temples of silver and gold, and what is our response? We turn these noble Dantes, these venerable Donnes into genteel aloof beings affected more by the sight of a ham sandwich than the sork of their hearts. And we somehow think that out respect is worth more than a poems survival!
We turn them into pronouns, give these masterpeices titles such as 'Classics' and 'Masters', and this is supposed to be worth a damn! This is supposed to make a poet proud!
Perhaps I am mistaken, perhaps these titles and praises do appeal to some. But to my eye, there is no greater title than 'Poet', no greater praise then the gratification of having ones work survive after ones name has long since disappeared from the memories of men.
E fin.