I Wroted A Poim!

Today, I sat down and I wrote:

“I am the first coming of Rembrandt.

Before Rubens was, I am.

And when Pollock has crumbled into oblivion,

I will still be splattering order all over my canvas.”

And then I tried writing more, but it didn’t work.

So I deleted it, and I tried again.

And the second try was worse than the first.

So I facebooked for a little bit, and then I realized:

that poem will never be written.

It’s a shard. It’s a poem-fragment.

It’s like all of those wonderful novels I began writing when I was younger.

It won’t go anywhere.

It was about the clouds after a tornado-storm came through.

They were beautiful.

But I can’t write that poem. It’s just not going to work.

Instead, I’m writing this.

I feel like this is more a lecture than a poem.

I feel like smashing my computer for sucking out all of my inspiration.

I feel like I’m done with this poem.

Or lecture. Whatever it is.

Long live awkwardness!

Finally. :/

Here's a poem. It's by W. H. Auden.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Now that is a good poem.

Long live one-night returns!