abgunner10
05-24-2008, 07:54 AM
Hey i'm new to this site so i thought i'd post one of my works and see what you guys think, and please feel free to be brutally honest, i have thick skin. i already posted another poem that i wrote for mother's day so feel free to critique that as well
That modern music is flawed
...Is what I-subject to the loathsome din
of radio ejaculations, and self-piteous wallowing
-have come to believe.
When I was much younger, my father bought for me
a guitar, the color of weak cinnamon,
with mother-of-pearl strings, and
at first my naive fingers could play only slow notes,
tremulous as the tides, but each with a tender beauty
that warmed by proud heart.
And my father spoke of radio days,
Of seraphic voices, bodiless and pure,
Of notes, distinct, that built high as mountains
And fell gently, like snowy tears.
And I, my eyes wide and gleaming with merry wonder
Scurried to a radio, only to find…
Something else.
And only now do I understand
What brought surcease to my spritish smile:
There have long since been no notes on radio;
They fell quietly, as my father said,
Callously mashed together,
Collectivized, compressed into
noise wrought from decades
of ceaseless compromise.
And when I turn the radio knob,
Noting there is no static hum, it is not
To find catharsis in the processed cries
Of adolescence, but to look upon my guitar, and tell myself
That my little whole and half notes, dancing hand in hand in harmony,
And the strings that mourn in unison,
When another breaks
Will not be there.
That modern music is flawed
...Is what I-subject to the loathsome din
of radio ejaculations, and self-piteous wallowing
-have come to believe.
When I was much younger, my father bought for me
a guitar, the color of weak cinnamon,
with mother-of-pearl strings, and
at first my naive fingers could play only slow notes,
tremulous as the tides, but each with a tender beauty
that warmed by proud heart.
And my father spoke of radio days,
Of seraphic voices, bodiless and pure,
Of notes, distinct, that built high as mountains
And fell gently, like snowy tears.
And I, my eyes wide and gleaming with merry wonder
Scurried to a radio, only to find…
Something else.
And only now do I understand
What brought surcease to my spritish smile:
There have long since been no notes on radio;
They fell quietly, as my father said,
Callously mashed together,
Collectivized, compressed into
noise wrought from decades
of ceaseless compromise.
And when I turn the radio knob,
Noting there is no static hum, it is not
To find catharsis in the processed cries
Of adolescence, but to look upon my guitar, and tell myself
That my little whole and half notes, dancing hand in hand in harmony,
And the strings that mourn in unison,
When another breaks
Will not be there.