Chava
02-25-2007, 02:43 PM
As a school assignment I've been asked to write a piece of poetry attempting to convey my opinion on the theme of "The Outsider" by Camus. - Which is that it is foremost a piece of socio-criticism. So, I'd really like some remarks on this first draft of it, since none are more adequate critics than those of the lit net. so get out a red pen, and tell me what you think, go on, be harsh! :)
Have you shown the night guard away?
And told him to keep his key?
Have you taken him to a quite room,
And served him a cup of tea?
Let him rest his feet upon a stool,
And give him something good to read.
In the paper there will be,
A section dedicated to my being.
He’ll read it in great fascination,
Trying to determine the cause of my monstrosity.
He’ll shake his head with mild resentment,
And he’ll have a sip of tea.
Then while he sinks into a stupor,
I’ll rattle the bars of my window,
I’ll kick the pot under my bed,
and scratch the walls with my shredded nails.
I’ll stare at the sunset with smouldering eyes,
And I will see every grain of colour,
Every pigment of red.
I’ll rip through the newspapers,
That talk of my achievements.
I’ll extinguish my historical existence.
I’ll recollect their swollen bellies,
The nest of wrinkles upon their face,
And I’ll observe the pattern created,
By tears fauceting from their head.
It’s just that once they’ve faced the sun,
The tears are will all dry and again be gone.
They all point accusingly and lisp,
With their lips tucked into their toothless gum.
Waving their crucifix’ at me,
Begging me to beg forgiveness.
“I am Christian, I ask Him to forgive your sins.”
But I’m not really listening.
My tears are of frustration and anguish,
Not because I’m dying,
But because you’ve left me nothing to die for,
I’ve no personality or soul to lose.
It’s your victory and your success,
Congratulations friend, I’ve become identity less.
When the night guard returns on his rounds,
He’ll find my cell empty;
I’ll not have fled through the skylight,
Or disembowelled the pillows.
He can wave his scythe at me,
And rattle his teeth in his gaunt jutting skull,
But I know he can’t harm me.
Because whatever was there,
Has been taken away,
By those vultures who say,
I wouldn’t cry on my mothers funeral day.
Have you shown the night guard away?
And told him to keep his key?
Have you taken him to a quite room,
And served him a cup of tea?
Let him rest his feet upon a stool,
And give him something good to read.
In the paper there will be,
A section dedicated to my being.
He’ll read it in great fascination,
Trying to determine the cause of my monstrosity.
He’ll shake his head with mild resentment,
And he’ll have a sip of tea.
Then while he sinks into a stupor,
I’ll rattle the bars of my window,
I’ll kick the pot under my bed,
and scratch the walls with my shredded nails.
I’ll stare at the sunset with smouldering eyes,
And I will see every grain of colour,
Every pigment of red.
I’ll rip through the newspapers,
That talk of my achievements.
I’ll extinguish my historical existence.
I’ll recollect their swollen bellies,
The nest of wrinkles upon their face,
And I’ll observe the pattern created,
By tears fauceting from their head.
It’s just that once they’ve faced the sun,
The tears are will all dry and again be gone.
They all point accusingly and lisp,
With their lips tucked into their toothless gum.
Waving their crucifix’ at me,
Begging me to beg forgiveness.
“I am Christian, I ask Him to forgive your sins.”
But I’m not really listening.
My tears are of frustration and anguish,
Not because I’m dying,
But because you’ve left me nothing to die for,
I’ve no personality or soul to lose.
It’s your victory and your success,
Congratulations friend, I’ve become identity less.
When the night guard returns on his rounds,
He’ll find my cell empty;
I’ll not have fled through the skylight,
Or disembowelled the pillows.
He can wave his scythe at me,
And rattle his teeth in his gaunt jutting skull,
But I know he can’t harm me.
Because whatever was there,
Has been taken away,
By those vultures who say,
I wouldn’t cry on my mothers funeral day.