December
27, 1982 4:45 p.m. pst
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
It's 1982, and I have a feeling
the poetry is returning after countless battles with drugs, alcohol, good
friends, and partying like an asshole. I move into a new apartment, after
being kicked out of the one I was living in because of all the drug addled
parties, and start writing poetry again. (I'm always writing poetry "again")
Here goes:
Biteswhip Elegy
Inspiratorial Requests
from the pasts beakon
Hearkening the pure devoted disciples
Weary & downtrodden they shine
for but a moment
And a clear clean sheet of paper
fastened to its own individuality
Makes contact with the pen
Again
No more disheartened questions
bombard brilliant blatant bombasts
but
serenity
a dull dim fusion
blows life into death &
hope into hypertension
Conspiratorial complaints
from the pasts
Are but requests
And need not raise their heads
in prayer again
A soothing grant from present
presence
Pallid no more
Bequeath the poet with effervescence.
Cancerous cantankerous
malicious maligned muse memory
Regains her thoughts
And thinks of me
I her
and no more caust a plaint for time
The same lines
on my page
& on her face
give truth to touch the age
Inspiration
Consternation
An alien nation at my feet
Hope eternal
Knicknackturnal
Sing to me that we may meet
Registration
No feign elation
A dour expressed upon her teat
oh you kid
Dictionarial conscripts
sure sound sweet.
Now, this is a poem which has quite a number of nonsense words and phrases.
Does that impair it's ability to gain understanding, or is it understood at
all? Who knows? Least of all the poet. He is merely the *laughing* conduit
of the words. There is no such phrase as "caust a plaint". That's
a bastardization of "Shakespearean verse". Shakespeare "invented"
a lot of English phrases, by using them first. What the hell is a "Biteswhip
Elegy" anyway? This is a "joke poem". Sometimes the poet gets
so bored with his own creativity (this is a valid confession, by the way)
that he just "rambles" and hopes that pearls of wisdom exit his
inherent madness. Like all creative people, I suppose.
copyright 1999-2004 by Michael F. Nyiri
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