Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Old poem found

I found this poem looking through my manbook earlier.

I fully anticipate posting some prose, but that always takes way longer for me to finish and this was just there, ready to go.

Small life, same idea

I was collected in a little jar
with dirt and muck and seaweed.
And at first I couldn't see out the jar
but after a short period everything settled
and I could see out the jar again.
Of course this wasn't permanent
and a big hand came out of nowhere
and shook up the jar into a maelstrom
of squalid matter clouding my vision.
I wanted to die, it was almost unbearable
but, like when I was first collected
the contents eventually settled, except
this time there was no seaweed;
it had been compacted under the muck.
As the jar would get dark I'd rest
and in the light I'd awaken to my
empty jar with brown coating the base.
Dark and then light, and after the dark
small green sprouts began to poke
through the brownness.
Light then dark, light then dark
until finally full seaweed stood tall
greener than the first had ever been.

6 comments:

  1. Of course it is, except men don't write in "diaries." They write in "manbooks."

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  2. That's fascinating. I appreciate your manipulation of the English language, sir.

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  3. I agree with Haywood on this one. Creativity is good but not a poem.

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  4. A poem is a form of literary art in which language is used for its creative and evocative qualities to complement its apparent meaning. So I will have to respectfully disagree with the opinions above.

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