My birthday
the end of an era
of poetry
…again.
era:
a long and distinct period of history with a particular feature or characteristic
Mid 17th
cent
from late
Latin
plural of
aes
as in
aer—
for “money, counter”
AND DON’T YA KNOW
wouldn’t ya know it
didn’t you see it coming?
yet again
they try to force me
to define me
by how much
me make
matey.
So forget that
(…again)
I’m defining me:
poetry,
specifically: how much I make
over and again,
how much
how well
I poetry, C.D.,
I poetry too,
long,
strong,
wrong and strong like the singer
unsure of the right note
but ready to perform
to meet audience head-on
all the same
Theodin and his cries of
death.
I poetry
wrong and strong
until this global,
sunken
bank vault
gets
aerated…
for goodness sake,
sheesh.
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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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