Posts Tagged ‘Art’

Why do I write?
It’s an intricate question,
But the answer is simple,
I found a calling within the ink,
A reason for being,
An obsession perhaps,

And so I waltz with quills and vellum,
A giggling rune crafter,
Splashing ink upon dreams and fantasies,
Incubi between the lines,
Chimera of vowels and consonants,
And I’m a capable beast master,

I’ll admit it takes practice,
When I pen these brainchilds,
I’m not showing off,
Not espousing some kind of artsy manifesto,
I simply write because I love it,
I could not see myself any other way.

What is dark poetry?
It’s art from the other side of life,
The undercroft,
It is the pens true misgivings with the world,
Poetry without the veneer of hope,
Without naivete,

It’s verse unconcerned with the daisies,
Or the wonders global,
It’s poetry with the mask off,
Of black eyes and cracked teeth,
Of track marks and hangovers,
Grief and crime and the reapers art,

Don’t misconstrue my words though,
Flowery prose has its place,
Ink of faith and family,
Denial helps with the pain after all,
But all ideals require an obverse,
And that’s poetry from the dark.

I was spawned without logic,
Without reason,
A vacuum behind the eyes,
Only a glitzy nebula in the gap,
My mind must be locked up elsewhere,
Incarcerated in absentia,

Reason has formed a bogeyman,
Trying to drag me away,
To mundanity,
But I won’t go,
I’m fleeing sanity,
Cloaked in oddity,

I live as a madman,
Bereft of marbles,
Skipping gleefully along the path,
Sidestepping what you call common sense,
Seeing carousels and masquerades everywhere,
Persisting on this demented track.

Every book is a wellspring,
Dripping with the exertions of an artist,
An acolyte of the quill,
Each and every tome,
It is a font,
A primordial soup upon parchment,
Birthing life on every page,
Bursting forth galaxies in mental geysers,

It draws stories in your minds eye,
Worlds that never were,
Fantasy and science fiction,
Horror and romance,
It is succour to a soul in this grey land,
A taste of aqua for a dying man,
An escape,
Until the book covers meet.

Looking back at my scribblings,
I weep tender tears,
The ink vents at me,
It chastises me,
Denouncing my attempts at artistry,

I’m a sham,
I’m farcical,
A fake,
Trying at a craft that mocks my toils,
Playing at aptitude,

I can’t argue,
The ink preaches to my choir,
The writing only reflects my own thoughts,
In all of my inadequacy,
My words prove vacuous and dry,

The ink speaks with my voice,
Knowing I’m bound for inconsequence,
Only a charlatan,
Yes indeed,
But one that shall keep trying.

I don’t recall when,
But we eloped from the realm of normality,
Me myself and I,
Became curiously strange,
A rebel from sanity,
A highwayman on the outskirts,

It was indeed a crime to some,
And I was cruelly judged,
Flogged and pilloried,
Pebbles scraping at my painted smile,
Stepped on,
A grey screen held over my effulgent colours,

But I embrace this life of banditry,
I’m the Harlequin,
A heretic from the creed of routine,
I’m not you,
I’m not by the numbers,
I’m an unapologetic renegade.

We are all sculptors,
Did you know this?
Tooth and chisel in hand,
Toiling to fashion a statue of ourselves,
Not in mundane physicality,
But a simulacrum of our internal selves,
Every facet of life made mineral,
Family and romance and profession,

The variety of works will be awesome,
Many will create perfect forms of marble,
A model sculpture of a model existence,
Something for others to muse over,
Some may be sloppily cut from rough material,
Rashly hewn by a being in woe,
A life and potential unfulfilled,
Not all souls prove picturesque,

The scale of each monument scales,
Our tenures are not all equal,
And death is a sacrosanct deadline,
When you take your last breath,
The sculpture is complete,
The great work is done,
A remnant of a life for all to see,
To marvel at or chastise.

When I write,
I fashion wings to soar away,
With words in place of feathers,
Verbs and emotions as down,
The ink acting as glue,
Wielding these curious machinations,
I long to swim on the zephyrs,
To travel betwixt sun and moon,
To spit in the eyes of vain gods,
Madness perhaps,
I’m not like Icarus though,
Wings not built of wax,
But of honest dreams,
And dreams are fireproof.

Oh dear reader,
A question sears a mark into my mind,
Pecked at by vexing ravens,
A query for you and all,
Artist or nay,
At which point does a style grow formulaic?
When does one become a one-trick pony?
When ones modus operandi,
Becomes your only notable feature,

A factory line from your soul,
Your work grows droll,
The same structure,
The same cadence,
The same tone,
It’s art but it’s not artful,
Passable but forgettable,
Innovation taking a backseat,
It’s a strange cycle to break,

So please tell me,
Can poetry become generic?
Or is stagnant design to be commended?
I’m asking for a friend.

Is fate real?
Or is everything on a whim?
Is the story already penned?
Or are we toys for an impulsive child?
Not so much a puppet master,
But a dark conductor,

Randomly arranging the winds of life,
With thorny baton waved wildly,
Music sheets flung from the podium,
Picking from an orchestra of painful instruments,
Which beat to batter us with next,
The tempo of disasters and heartbreaks,

Perhaps not fully malicious,
But certainly uncaring,
I know not which,
The results remain the same of course,
A terrible life of a song,
Made up of misery.