Sunday, August 30, 2009

A poem

I never get round to finishing my poems- they sit for years before I start to feel they are getting near a finished state. To get over this extreme control freakery I have started posting raw work on my other blog- I have one piece that says something I wanted to say and says it quite well. I hope it expresses something of what other people may have experienced so I have posted it here- maybe not a great poem but it is honest.

How high do you have to set a spam filter to block compassion?
MS does not mean Mr. Gates.
No virus linked to her system failure
She is no threat
But you set her into quarantine
In case her pain upsets you.

Disease makes people uncomfortable.
Not every friend is worth caring for.
You made your choice:
Comfort before honour.

Get on with your life
Have fun
We wish you no ill
Because we know you are a little dead
And not qualified to share our beauty.


Herrad said...

Hi Richie,
Thanks for the poem.
Some people can't cope, they do not want to see or hear and experience anything that worries them.

steve said...

I'm no poet, but I do know where to find poetry generators!

Here is your Vogon Poem from BBC Cult

See, see the ill sky
Marvel at its big plaid depths.
Tell me, Richie do you
Wonder why the man ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel cranky.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your documentate facial growth
That looks like
A cold.
What's more, it knows
Your snatch potting shed
Smells of toe jam.
Everything under the big ill sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm feets.

I guess we know why Vogon poetry is considered the third worst in the universe. To teach a computer to write it should be a crime.

Richie said...

Hi Steve, I bet you write your own poems when no one is looking

catch this one(Tom Leonard wrote it)

100 Differences Between Poetry and Prose

poetry stops before the end of the margin

you can talk about prose without mentioning school

you don’t read poetry to get from Glasgow to Saltcoats without noticing

John Menzies doesn’t stock poetry

whoever heard of war & peace having the line as a unit of semantic yield

you can call a poem what you want and say its poetic licence

poetry is the subliminal history of linguistic shape


poetry has four wheels, two wings and a pair of false teeth

poetry is the heart and the brain divided by the lungs

poetry is the world’s oldest cock and fanny story

you don’t get prose in anapaestic dimeters

nobody publishes their first slim volume of prose

aristotle never wrote The Proses

if you dribble past five defenders, it isn’t called sheer prose

poets are the unacknowledged thingwaybobs

poetry is quintessentially contrapuntal

the square root of poetry is an ever-evolving quark

whenever Vergil looked in the mirror, he beheld an epic Latin poet

poetry is all the juicy bits in the juiciest order

poetry is jellied religion

pascal: if your labourers complain too much, try taking them to a poetry reading

prose goes scchhpludd

prose goes scchhpludd scchhpludd clomp clomp clomp

are you sitting comfortably

then I’ll end