It's fate, destiny, doom:
writing the same poem
over and over again.
Your own tropes
regurgitated,
others' metaphors
chewed to pablum
and smeared on
the paper in
imitation of art.
It's fame, acceptance, loot:
striving for some status
higher and better than this.
Your poor words
unjustified,
beyond the margin,
blued by pencil
and thrown on
the slushpile in
merited contempt.
Comments
chuck | September 22, 2008 - 14:03
'I can't go on. I'll go on.'
Samuel Barclay Beckett (13 April 1906 – 22 December 1989)
sunshine | September 22, 2008 - 16:08
Is anything really original? Aaahh the philosphers' never ending debate. I so enjoyed this in spite of doubts about chewing pablum and not liking 'slushpile'. Why is crticism of others' work so much easier than insight into ones own? Margot
littleditty | September 22, 2008 - 17:48
another poem to add to the one big poem - oh what did Mr Elliot say? something like that - i liked the blue pencil line - editor's colours, blue - ive an old poem, may be here, called Blue pencil, which like this one reminds me to take a break and soak up more of the colours on the colour wheel -is it Autumn where you are? Missed it again, its the first day of Spring where i am, no more Canarian Dorada, but a Brasilian cheers to you :o)
Ewan | September 22, 2008 - 18:03
MMMMMM! Caiporenho (?) who cares how you spell it!