Embarassing Poetry Part 1

I have decided to bare all. Dug out my folio from the stack of boxes in the corner and flipped through some breathtakingly bad poetry. But who cares? I was young. I still am. So will write self-importantly until the day I hit a note that strikes a chord in all. That is, a poet should be self-aware, but not self-absorbed. In other words, "enough with the narcissism and get a move on!" as the little voice in the back of my head would like to put it. "Just embarass yourself already. We want to be entertained."

This shall be an exercise in exorcising old ghosts.

So. A self-conscious fifteen-year-old steps up to a too-high microphone. (Omigosh look at the number of hyphens there. Edit! Edit for your life, woman. Stop it. Stop it. Calm down. What's wrong with you?) In the time it takes to adjust the mike and swallow hard, she battles her inner panic and the cold trembling that accompanies her whenever she speaks to a group larger than five people. In that one second, the many voices she carries within her--voices of self-doubt, self-deprecation, egoistic self-assurance and secure self-knowledge--must stop jostling for attention and space. They must meld into a united voice to speak forth....what?

What?!! At the end of the day it was--and still is, I assure you. Look, stop butting in and let the woman tell her story. You shut up. No. you shut up. No you. No, you...

Anyway, at the end of the day it was a scribble written on the back of a dirty receipt picked up from the ground. Yes. I used litter to write--you know it's a good thing to recycle. Recycling saves the environment for our progeny and keeps turtles alive. For instance, by reducing the amount of plas---

*sounds of choking as militant Voice Two grabs fussy Inner Voice One by the throat*


I WROTE:

Futilism
Pavement-crack ants scrittle
in valleys, through gullies
while supermarket trolleys trundle
about them, above them.
It makes no difference to their lives--
a trolley wheel or shoe
should end it.


I cannot for the life of me think of what I meant when I wrote it, as there are obviously opposing meanings in the poem. It does make a difference that their lives are ended. Perhaps a foolish attempt to storm the gates of logic. Or if I take the dash out of the fifth line it would mean that it makes no difference if a trolley wheel or shoe ends their life: either their lives are insignificant or...alright, alright, I shall not insult your intelligence by performing a technical analysis of a poem. This is a DIY kind of place, you know. Go break a leg over the meaning of a comma, if such things entertain you. (Really, if it does, read Wit by Margaret Edson)

*A dying gasp.* Inner Voice One has left the game. Go Alissa! Mission accomplished.

Just to reward you for reading so far, I shall throw in a few more freebies.

I wonder if the grass is glad to see me
And cheers as I walk by,
Or, like an ant I'm noticed
By the giant sky.

Labelled that epithet Egotism and I am confounded by the third line. Obviously had a problem with condensing the meaning here.

Here's a howler from my primary school days. I know it was written before I was 10 as I cleared up my spelling problems after that (okay, except for double the 'r' and double 's' bits). This was for Mother's Day. I don't think I ever gave it to her. Since I didn't get my mother a present...here's to you, Ma.

White lilies fair,
Fair as God can make,
Each one white strand of hair;
Wisdom that God gave.

In beuty what can compare?
To beuty of the heart;
In beuty of the heart,
Who can compare to you?

A loving mother's kiss,
Sweetly, tenderly given.
But what is it's use,
When it is ill forgotten?


Okay. I very shy now. *pulls blanket over head and hides* The rest is stuff from my depressive periods so I shall make fun of it another time.