Linguistically Related Pet Peeve #1

The nineties were fun, I'm sure, the grunge was a nice touch. I grew up in the nineties after all... However when I decided to read up on some of the poetry from that decade, I came up short. Not as in there was none to be found, (there was an abundance clamouring for my attention) literally as in one-word stanzas and a complete disregard for rhyme and meter.

Yes, I get it.. you are all free spirits, non-conformists without answer to anyone... but then why the heck do you all write in the same, dry, unimaginative monotone, I ask?

Now, admittedly I'm a free-verse poet myself, but I've just one point to make here, poets of the nineties..

Writing it
in
short
lines won't
make
it
poetry, darnit.

To critique the poetry of my childhood decade... what IS this shit?

The Last Hippie

This little poem goes against most of my writing habits, as it is an environmental cry-out: and while I feel strongly on the subject; Poetry should not have to have a message or reason! -doing so quite nearly undermines the purpose of poetry in fact- and it saddens me greatly that this one should need to be.
-
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The Last Hippie.

He sits, entwined
In the branches of the last tree
Of metropolis.

This is his place
To breathe, a memory of the tranquil,
Shrouded in chaos,

Like a faded
Photograph, alien to the gaudy lights
Of the city.

An apology, he clings
To the ancient boughs, bark rough under
Tired hands.

Branches spread skyward,
As tactile fingers, and all he can taste is
The sorrow.

They two,
Last of a kind, there was never room
For failure.

With a pistol cocked
To his mouth, forgiveness is begged,
Tomorrow, the diggers come.

There will be no last stand.
-
© Leah Petts 13.09.2009

A Poem that I even hate myself.

I don't feel like writing with Tanith today, she's still asleep and frankly I can't be bothered trying to wake up a fictional character.

So I think a poem may be in order, I'll apologise in advance for it.

-
The Faerie Market.

Take your woeful Faerie-blues to market, quick,
If they're stagnant they won't sell at all.
Gather them up in your pockets,
and sit, cross-legged amongst the stalls.

Lay out your wicked Faerie-blues,
they'll need no tag or price.
For no folk will bargain for your blues,
they have their own Faerie-strife.

Wear your patience as a shield,
while your Faeries struggle and scream.
Wait for Nanna Grimm,
To pluck you from your Faerie-dream.

Blindfold your eyes; lest you see her so,
the breeze of memory brushes your face.
With thin fingers she silenced your Faeries,
then, left nothing, not a trace.

The market is gone, like Nanna Grimm,
simply no longer there.
And you are numb without the Faerie-woes,
you so willingly gave her to snare.

From your woeless shell comes and anguished cry,
and Lo, Nanna Grimm appear!
Your Faeries struggle in her grasp,
your Faeries are grey with fear.

But without fear by your side,
the world is icy calm.
You turn your eyes to Nanna Grimm,
you grasp her by the arm.

Nanna Grimm looks down on you,
but without your fear, you cannot quail.
Wordlessly, you open your palm,
with a nod, She returns your Faeries-Frail.

As Nanna Grim begins to fade,
you embrace your dear Faerie-blues.
Never again to be tricked as you have,
Nanna Grimm is now wary of you.

With your woes riding light on your shoulders,
you head from the empty square.
Your blues as they have ever been,
held in check by your Faeries-Fair.

© Leah Petts, 30th March ‘08
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that was quite an outpouring! (drivel more like)
I'm terribly sorry to anyone who gives a damn, but I'm morally obligated to wrap up this post.
You see, I've let my coffee go cold... (Nnnnnooooooooooooooo!)

Enjoy your day Houston,
this is Little Miss Scribble, signing off!