Ancient Mariner
03-17-2012, 07:25 AM
The Fancy Poet
It is ten PM and the poet must get to work.
Excogitates most beautiful words,
Makes the first line of the verse.
Mention of a gorgeous woman,
It is Inherent to all art.
Metaphors are requisite,
Compare her to stars above,
Her lips to roses red and her face to that of a dove.
Which reader is foolish enough,
To confuse a woman with heaven’s stars?
Take my advice, poetic friend,
With the pen, you’re wasting your hours.
If beautiful your woman was,
You wouldn’t need to make a fuss.
If beautiful your woman was,
Your poem would have had purpose.
The poet throws more words,
Into his new hybrid poem.
Cardiac ability of endless love,
For a lunar faced woman.
Poems need not make sense,
Their own meanings must readers make,
For the juxtaposition of words,
Many meanings which may take.
Don’t be silly, dear fancy poet,
People tread now on the moon.
With their shoes and their machines,
You lover’s face they mar.
How can a human face,
Rival in whiteness, the moon?
She looks well in human colour,
Why portray her as a cartoon?
Impressive I have to sound,
Open the poetic thesaurus book.
Pick words they never saw,
My epic poem, is too good to get.
Good art is never known,
Marvel at the magnificence,
You could never have achieved,
Such poetic incoherence.
Fool, you make me sick,
Good art do you disgrace.
If it doesn’t make sense,
Then in this world it hasn’t a place.
Art should change beholder’s life,
Objective purpose, it must have.
If your purpose isn’t sure,
Then your poetry is impure.
Must finish it by ten-thirty,
The template is almost filled.
Another masterpiece I create,
Heartbreak, the final content.
Immune to criticism I am,
You may bark as you wish,
The real judges are my readers,
And my work they do cherish.
Your readers, you know are fools,
What perplexes them, they praise.
Pretending to know complexity,
They pose to have rich taste.
No one really likes your work,
They pretend and they conform.
It is fashion to praise gibberish,
They praise to follow fad.
Haven’t you known all along,
That the only judge is you?
Haven’t you known all along,
That I’m only a part of you?
It is ten PM and the poet must get to work.
Excogitates most beautiful words,
Makes the first line of the verse.
Mention of a gorgeous woman,
It is Inherent to all art.
Metaphors are requisite,
Compare her to stars above,
Her lips to roses red and her face to that of a dove.
Which reader is foolish enough,
To confuse a woman with heaven’s stars?
Take my advice, poetic friend,
With the pen, you’re wasting your hours.
If beautiful your woman was,
You wouldn’t need to make a fuss.
If beautiful your woman was,
Your poem would have had purpose.
The poet throws more words,
Into his new hybrid poem.
Cardiac ability of endless love,
For a lunar faced woman.
Poems need not make sense,
Their own meanings must readers make,
For the juxtaposition of words,
Many meanings which may take.
Don’t be silly, dear fancy poet,
People tread now on the moon.
With their shoes and their machines,
You lover’s face they mar.
How can a human face,
Rival in whiteness, the moon?
She looks well in human colour,
Why portray her as a cartoon?
Impressive I have to sound,
Open the poetic thesaurus book.
Pick words they never saw,
My epic poem, is too good to get.
Good art is never known,
Marvel at the magnificence,
You could never have achieved,
Such poetic incoherence.
Fool, you make me sick,
Good art do you disgrace.
If it doesn’t make sense,
Then in this world it hasn’t a place.
Art should change beholder’s life,
Objective purpose, it must have.
If your purpose isn’t sure,
Then your poetry is impure.
Must finish it by ten-thirty,
The template is almost filled.
Another masterpiece I create,
Heartbreak, the final content.
Immune to criticism I am,
You may bark as you wish,
The real judges are my readers,
And my work they do cherish.
Your readers, you know are fools,
What perplexes them, they praise.
Pretending to know complexity,
They pose to have rich taste.
No one really likes your work,
They pretend and they conform.
It is fashion to praise gibberish,
They praise to follow fad.
Haven’t you known all along,
That the only judge is you?
Haven’t you known all along,
That I’m only a part of you?