Why I write Poetry

Writing is an art form and all art is a means of self expression. I weave words not yarn; mix metaphors not paint; rhythm words not chords. Words are my brushes and paper is my canvas. Poetry is the screen shot, screen grab of the writing world, fitting as much as possible in a succinct concise form. It is the literary equivalent of a selfie, a tweet – the Instagram of writing. Poems are this poets answers to the “Why”, attempting to satisfy my urge for closure, even if it is not forthcoming (which often it is not). Everyone is has to figure out there own “Why”, even this poet.

But Why ??

Writing poetry is able to put us in touch with people who are different from ourselves in a non-violent fashion, it becomes a means of pacifist activism. Writing has become who I am, it is both cathartic, healing, confrontational and a means of seeking (partial) closure or venting my darker emotions. My poems are a mix of thoughts, questions and ideas; from journey’s travelled, literal and imaginative; creating a picture of the world from my perspective. Even if, in the writing, there is no closure, that is the closure I require, at that moment.

“Poets have an audience because we need to know how to go about reaching the next day of our lives.”

It has been said, to use a bad metaphor: Poets are kind of like canaries in a coal mine. The conscience/voice of the voiceless. Often my poems, emerge from the pain of personal experience, leading to angry outbursts against the coal mine, in which I from time to time, find myself.

The Arrogance of Entitlement

The Banality of Corporate Deceit

Speaking for myself, but I’m reasonably sure other poets would at times agree. We can’t explain ‘why we write’, but they would certainly understand and agree, that we write for the love of writing poetry. Poems are literary mountains that need to be climbed, in a page or a few lines;  the poem has to be condensed, without straying from the main theme, and it also usually has a beginning, middle and (sometimes) an end. It is this journey which is the challenge, in most cases a deeply personal journey; so walk with me as we step back from your reality and gaze into the abyss of my mind, and let’s see what stares back.

In closing, ponder the words of John Keating from the film: Dead Poets Society.

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute.
We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.
And the human race is filled with passion.
And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.
But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.
To quote from Whitman:
"O me! O life!...of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless
of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?"
 
Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play (goes on) and you may contribute a verse.
 
What will your verse be?

John Keating, Dead Poets Society.

A poet writes poetry because they love poetry

© 2016 Michael D Emmerich

Fuck War!

draft or dodge

conscription or jail

exile or war

hero traitor or coward

choices that define or break


who is the enemy


the just or unjust war

justified by the church

who stands aside

letting death slip quietly by

welcoming death

in gods name it shall be done


who chose this war


justified by the politician

arrogance greed and power

forcing boys to become men

to become killers

for the sake of an ‘ism, as told by an idiot


who has the most to lose


who binds the wounds that bleed

the scars that don’t heal

the wounds you cannot see

none but the fellow beside him

neither the church or politicians

in whose name their blood is discarded

along with their futures
 

whose life is to be sacrificed


not mine said the politician, suckling on the teat of corporate greed

not mine said the bishop, god made me do it

not mine said the arms dealer, I just sell death

not mine said the general, I’ve done my time

not mine said the wealthy, the poor are the pawns

not mine said the socialite, I’ll read it on page seven


who has the most to gain


At whose cost

At what cost

WHY?

FUCK WAR!

 

© 2016 Michael D Emmerich

The Forgotten Soldier

history written by the victorious

remembered by the soldier

forgotten by all

battered, bruised, discarded

honour cast aside

no medals for the forgotten warrior



once forgotten

memories now return

new wounds emerge

new scars

new pain and guilt

but still society forgets



wars once popular

now become an anathema

silence abounds

but the memories remain



history written in black

but remembered in blood

history written in scars

survives beyond the fading text



politicians write the history

soldiers carry the weight of that history
© 2016 michael d emmerich
© 2016 mikesnexus.com

An Idiot Wind Blows

a wind is sweeping the land
no wait, across our planet
the wind blows through the halls of power
no country is sacrosanct


mediocrity our new political watchword
on a good day!
on every other day
we would be considered blessed
to have mediocre leaders


the wind of the bigot
the ignorant
the illiterate autocrat
blows with vigour
no stone left unturned
all that stand in the way 
bashed, broken, ripped apart


theocracy takes flight
the hot air of idiocy
blows with venom
from the open gaping
vacuous mouths
of our elected leaders


even when they are eloquently
hoisted on their own petard
their praise singers and chorus lines
run to the fore
like court jesters of old


the halls are silent
laughter is absent
intentions are real, deceitful
wrestling power and control
from the blind electorate
who have realised to late
the error of their ballot cross
has now become a cross they cannot bear

© 2015 michael d emmerich