Poetry is a Prose Writer’s Worst Nightmare

I have been going through some old poems from portfolios of past classes and I thought I’d share a couple with you. Now, before I do, please note: I am not a poet. I don’t understand poetry, it’s hard. I don’t know how to write something short, concise, and meaningful. I’m more of a starts-a-short-story-and-it-comes-out-a-novel kind of a person. So these were my best efforts.

No making fun!

Another Old Story

Three-fourths completed, lying open on my nightstand,

with a brittle spine broken like a deep-ridged canyon. It smells aged—

like one hundred years of history—like one thousand decades of use.

The pulpy pages have yellowed from loving caresses and eager

eyes, and the corners have frayed, white tips like waves crashing into

one another as the pages turn. I’ve spent years between these

battle-torn pages; fighting pirates and running from beasts. I can

still hear the ticking of the crocodile: tick, tick tick, as time—like

this book—is torn apart. Memories of childhood burn like stars in the

sky above me. I recall fondly the days when “second to the right and

straight on till morning” meant I could fly.

 

*The next poem is about Dracula. We had to pick a famous character in advertisement, television, film, or literature, and write about their life/perspective.

 

Shut Your Bloody Mouth

He was tired of the dismal days,

wooden stakes,

and the constant clamoring of the

petulant village folks.

 

The crimson taste on his tongue

was growing dull.

He was beginning to think

he had been alive for far too long.

 

He would have rather

turned to dust like he was supposed to.

Instead he was forced to live with the

stolen hunger, the whispered heartbeats:

thump,

thump,

thump.

 

But even the humans were losing their glamour.

 

He had tried the animals—

they slashed at him with fangs and claws,

with jaws that snapped and clashed.

But still he had grown bored.

 

His options were growing slim.

A stake to the heart was starting

to sound like a viable solution.

 

If only he were less of a coward.

 

Swing by here tomorrow for chapter three of This is a Book, and if you don’t know what that is, follow this link to my friend Julia’s wall, and she will explain it all 🙂 (Did you like the rhyme–like poetry. Even though neither one of my poems rhymed. Oh…) I will also post the links to the previous chapters tomorrow so you can catch up! Ghosts, and aliens, and assassins, oh my!

Mel

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