Insecticide
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- [Syl]
- Unfettered One
- Posts: 13021
- Joined: Sat Oct 26, 2002 12:36 am
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Insecticide
Insects can little afford consideration
One just flew in and immolated itself
on my halogen lamp
An unpleasant odor and ashes are left
And I'm breathing his black and acrid death
I have a capacity for compassion
Inhaling the smoke of a creature
That came to die because of me
Died for me so he would be
A small, mothy part of my heart
So if one night I stumble
Through your window
And kill myself
Consider it a gift
One just flew in and immolated itself
on my halogen lamp
An unpleasant odor and ashes are left
And I'm breathing his black and acrid death
I have a capacity for compassion
Inhaling the smoke of a creature
That came to die because of me
Died for me so he would be
A small, mothy part of my heart
So if one night I stumble
Through your window
And kill myself
Consider it a gift
"It is not the literal past that rules us, save, possibly, in a biological sense. It is images of the past. Each new historical era mirrors itself in the picture and active mythology of its past or of a past borrowed from other cultures. It tests its sense of identity, of regress or new achievement against that past.”
-George Steiner
-George Steiner
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- The Gap Into Spam
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- [Syl]
- Unfettered One
- Posts: 13021
- Joined: Sat Oct 26, 2002 12:36 am
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Revised.
Insecticide
An inconsiderate moth-like creature
Immolates itself upon halogen.
It leaves an acrid and noxious feature
To drift about and find me in my den.
I fill my lungs with the smoke of his death
Taking the sacrifice for what it’s worth.
It does not leave entire with outward breath,
But in my cells finds a kind of rebirth.
On wings he fluttered in and died for me,
Reminding my mothy heart it can love
I think of that which still is yet to be,
My pain’s meaninglessness seen from above
So should I kill myself upon your door,
It is a gift intended, nothing more.
Insecticide
An inconsiderate moth-like creature
Immolates itself upon halogen.
It leaves an acrid and noxious feature
To drift about and find me in my den.
I fill my lungs with the smoke of his death
Taking the sacrifice for what it’s worth.
It does not leave entire with outward breath,
But in my cells finds a kind of rebirth.
On wings he fluttered in and died for me,
Reminding my mothy heart it can love
I think of that which still is yet to be,
My pain’s meaninglessness seen from above
So should I kill myself upon your door,
It is a gift intended, nothing more.
"It is not the literal past that rules us, save, possibly, in a biological sense. It is images of the past. Each new historical era mirrors itself in the picture and active mythology of its past or of a past borrowed from other cultures. It tests its sense of identity, of regress or new achievement against that past.”
-George Steiner
-George Steiner
ok.
you're prolly gonna kill me but...once again...i like the first one better.
you worked it over a bit much for me.
it lost it's punch.
whereas in the first one the pov is the access into the piece,
it's what makes the poem not just about you but, when i read it,
it's me. i'm the narrator. it's my pov. and i am speaking to who
i am speaking to.
and that is the beauty of poetry, that it not only conveys an idea that
you have to the reader, but the reader can become the poem.
not just relate to it. not just read the words and admire their form and
symetry and the clever way they were used.
but be the "i" and know who the "you" in "your door" is.
the first piece was perfect as it was. and beautiful.
and packed a helluva punch.
the revision reads well, has a great idea in it, flows,
works...but doesn't have the simple and profound impact
of the first.
don't kill me. i love your work.
you're prolly gonna kill me but...once again...i like the first one better.
you worked it over a bit much for me.
it lost it's punch.
whereas in the first one the pov is the access into the piece,
it's what makes the poem not just about you but, when i read it,
it's me. i'm the narrator. it's my pov. and i am speaking to who
i am speaking to.
and that is the beauty of poetry, that it not only conveys an idea that
you have to the reader, but the reader can become the poem.
not just relate to it. not just read the words and admire their form and
symetry and the clever way they were used.
but be the "i" and know who the "you" in "your door" is.
the first piece was perfect as it was. and beautiful.
and packed a helluva punch.
the revision reads well, has a great idea in it, flows,
works...but doesn't have the simple and profound impact
of the first.
don't kill me. i love your work.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
- [Syl]
- Unfettered One
- Posts: 13021
- Joined: Sat Oct 26, 2002 12:36 am
- Has thanked: 2 times
- Been thanked: 1 time
Heh. That's fine. I just thought it would be fun to rewrite it as a Shakespearean sonnet.
"It is not the literal past that rules us, save, possibly, in a biological sense. It is images of the past. Each new historical era mirrors itself in the picture and active mythology of its past or of a past borrowed from other cultures. It tests its sense of identity, of regress or new achievement against that past.”
-George Steiner
-George Steiner
yessssss!sgt.null wrote:"A small, mothy part of my heart"
i am jealous for that line alone...

and
"i'm breathing his black and acrid death"
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~