The sun is shining so a little fun today . . .
Is there a 12-step program for keyboard killers?
If so, just point me to it. I often share my tea with my keyboard. The other morning it didn't like it one bit!
So after buying a new keyboard yet again (*sigh*), I wrote the following “affirmation of commitment” in jest to a friend:
I will not drink tea while computing!
I will not drink tea while computing!
I will not drink tea while computing!
I will not drink tea while computing!
I will not drink tea while computing!
I will not drink tea while computing!
I will not drink tea while computing!
I will not drink tea while computing!
Because we are “poetry buddies” he pretended that I had been trying to write a poem and the above was the result of my efforts:
He wrote back:
“Well, this poem certainly has potential, good repetitions, and I cannot argue that it does not rhyme well.... but where is the angst all good poems must have? The obscure reference to the rocky road that the poet travels.... a palpable sense of impending doom, the poet's daily meal of gruel made bearable only by the promise of a sunset or a rainbow....... a chat with a stranger met on a dusty road? Try a daffodil, the croak of a frog late at night.... or a stormy sea. Fog is good too. Of course a field or two never does any harm.... especially in autumn....or cliffs, with birds, lots of birds....
Birds, frogs, rainbows, fields, gruel, dust, strangers, posies and angst.... use the poet's toolbox. It solves a lot of things.
Keep trying... you certainly show promise...”
So not to be outdone, I worked all day to try to use all the items in his “critique” and came up with this:
Be Anxious for Nothing Phil. 4:6
Angst rides on the storm that gathers overhead,
Gloom is palpable almost to the hand.
The despair is thick, seems to rise each morn
To blanket and smother the land.
The world’s gone materially mad, it seems.
Buying and selling their only interest.
Where is the peace, the contentment,
The heart that deep joy has blessed?
Man’s attention has turned away from honor and courage
And the world abounding in natural beauty,
Things that fed the soul, gladdened the heart,
And gave rise to a man’s sense of duty.
But the poet long ago was the soul of his race,
As he gathered men round the fire.
With his toolbox of words, meter, and rhyme,
He could mend broken spirits or inspire.
In those earlier days, the poet as minstrel
Gave hope through his song and his story.
But gone are those days when heroes abounded
And hearts were tuned to Nature’s glory.
The bard would point to past deeds of yore,
Or weave in the majesty of Creation,
And heroes would arise, ride out on their steeds,
Champion virtue and defend their nation.
And as the poet traveled the dusty road,
Seeking hope to counter the wrong,
Each man that he met, whether stranger or friend,
Would hail him and ask for a song.
Did the poet point round, with a sweep of his hand,
To daffodils as they danced in the breeze?
Or the song of the winds which accompanied him?
Did he pause in his rhyme to say, “Behold these!”
Did he ask, "Where’s the angst among natural things?
They’re heedless of dark clouds of doom that impend.
Overhead larks still sing, the wild geese take wing,
What could be the message they send?
The frog croaks satisfaction with the state of things
From his perch by the side of the pond.
The stately egret stakes out his domain,
Doesn’t bother with what might lie beyond.
The stormy sea is no real threat
To the creatures who ride its wild tide.
They’ve learned to trust though tempest-tossed,
Take the ebb and the flow in their stride.
The parade of colors on a bright autumn day,
The rainbow that arches the field,
Are visible signs that must be attended
To receive the joy they can yield.
Though mists may obscure, they may also enhance
The beauty of the early morn
As they settle and swirl ‘round valley and ridge,
And with opals the trees adorn.
Could it really be that the tenor of the day
Depends on the heart that responds?
How we accept invitations given to the eye,
Will determine what gladdens or desponds.
When the rocky road that the poet travels
Arrives at the forked intersection
Between despair and hope, discontent or joy,
A sign beckons, “Choose Resurrection.”
He remembers the eagle as it soars from the cliff,
The daffodils as they wave in the wind,
He remembers the lift of his spirit they gave,
And attends to the message they send.
He chooses to walk with his eyes open wide,
With the power of his personhood in his hand.
He says "no" to the gloom, rejects the despair,
And confident, yet grateful, takes his stand.
Flinging his verse to the world around him,
He soars with the eagle, dances in the wind.
Some will listen, and some turn away,
But the choice is theirs in the end.
When the Bard concludes, the message is clear:
To approach an earthly heaven,
Look around at all that is offered to you,
Accept with gratitude the gifts that are given.
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HOWEVER, you will discover I found no place for the “gruel” on the list, so if you insist on having gruel in your verse, here’s a couplet for an alternate ending. *grin*
So gruel or gravy, it’s up to you,
‘Cause the world offers a thick rich stew.
**The photo is a gannet, one amongst God's many miracles.
The gannet is a perfect example of the Creator’s art. There is no angst there. There is tension though, as the bird utilizes the sea winds to stay aloft. If she folds her wings, she falls and if there is no wind, she falls, so she moves her wings and expends energy to stay aloft. She uses that necessary tension creatively to fly.
So contrary to all the pontifications of the modern literary or art critics, creative tension is a more worthy goal in art or poetry or life than angst.
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