The free verse leaves out the back of the line, aimlessly grieves until we hear it whining, wailing, singing for more, more, MORE. It has never paid nor gone without—a babe, a brat, a brawling rich twit.
But a verse that stalks
down her narrow lines
would never walk
through a crowd to dine
with her verses bared, unclothed.
Behind locked doors,
she opens her chest and sings.
The caged verse sings
downtrodden trills
of the hammerfells
on the windowsills
and her tune is heard
on the First-World hills, for the caged verse
sings through freedom.
The free verse floats, breezy, queezed by ethereal motion-sickness, a sickness that leads to his vomit on pages, he vomits and sees that all his might and all his dreams achieved no more than a dawn-bright anti-meter in a world measured by metrics.
But a caged verse stands on the graves of pages
shadowed still by unsaid rages
her reservations mirror the actress:
smiling, though distressed.
The caged verse sings
downtrodden trills
of the hammerfells
on the windowsills
and her tune is heard
on a First-World hill for the caged verse
sings through freedom.
}{
For newcomers — a note on 50 @ 25:
Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23.
These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24th birthday on April 30th – and I had to write in genres spanning from epic ballads to limericks to get 46 in on time. I guess that means, for better or worse, that’s the best poetry I’ll ever write. Sad day.
Who was I kidding?
Milton was blind and old—oooooold—when he publishedParadise Regained. Emily Dickenson was dead when her stuff came out. My favorite stuff from T.S. Elliot came out after his conversion. So yeah, old age is good for poetry too. Look at Burns and Berry.
(Side note: the name “Berry Burns” sounds like a shady car salesman).
Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen every few years? Who knows, but this year, here’s to 50 poems at 25 to be written exponentially faster until I turn 26 on April Thirtyish. I do it this the second time around as a way to say: “Here’s to living life well before it’s too late.”
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