Some people like bringing up rules to be adhered to when discussing poetry. Rules such as, "no abstractions," yet what do you think metaphors and similes are? What do you think are words?
What sort of poetry can you write, when you let the rules use you rather than using them, and knowing when to abandon them? And if you cannot do anything but parrot said rules, shouldn't you just point at the rules, rather than call yourself a poetry critic?
Hark! For this poem that follows contains no abstractions. Nothing but concrete reality here.
What do you do when you give up on life,
give in to the demands you cannot meet,
when you give out, and giving sure is a hopeful word,
but what is left when all has been given?
What do you do when any attempt to call in anyone,
can do nought else but call up the ghosts of failures past,
and there's no one left to call out,
but yourself?
What can you do when any attempt to pull out
of it all only pulls you back in, and there are no hands
to pull you up, no shoulders to rely on?
They are looking in on you,
concern on their faces,
and assurances that things will look up,
so why are you looking so down, again.
What do you do then, when you cannot look out.
They beat you down with niceties,
until you are beaten up,
lips looking a healthy shade of red.
And these dark feelings set in, then move in,
and they set you up, and you cannot move out.
There's no room to move up,
no place to set down the burden.
You try to break out of the cell,
to break up the clot in your throat,
to break it down into small chunks, that will make sense,
to those that did not have pieces of themselves broken off.
What do you do when you throw up this run-on sentence, this run-on life?
When you cannot help but throw down on a page these husks,
now empty of meaning, that have been run out of life?
When you try to throw in the towel, only to run into the wall?
What do you do when there's nowhere to run, run, run, run, run
run, run, run, run, run away?
What do you do,
when you run out of energy,
out of time;
when you close out the book,
and put down the pen,
when you've been in the same spot for so long,
and you have been at it so many times.
What do you do,
when you run out of words,
but not out of pain.
Check out my latest poem:
- Scar Tissue - A poem.
Art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
The image used is The Death of Socrates by Jacques-Louis David, 1787, and is public domain.
© Guy Shalev 2018.