#EpicPoetry hashtag - Bluesky

And Also Much Cattle, Part I, Chapter 1 Martin

1 week ago

Come read the first chapter of my epic poem, ‘And Also Much Cattle.’ The chapter is called ‘Martin’ and concerns two friends reminiscing about jazz school, and life afterwards.

#poetry #epicpoetry

open.substack.com/pub/thegoodl...

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2 weeks ago

I wonder still how we looked to him, Furious over a fallow field, Shouting out lefts and rights And stomping at every mistake. He seemed to possess ambitions Far too monumental for talentless Hacks such as us, the assorted rejects Of the high school's strict hierarchy, And wished for a day when we might Be awarded medals and ribbons In recognition of our great performances. This would never occur, at least, In the time I spent with the man. We never won a single competition In any category but esprit de corps, An award given, seemingly, because Two of our friends came painted To support us during our time on the field.

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2 weeks ago

For I was never called to the best' ensembles, Never had my talent been plumbed for riches, Never had I been ranked among the jazz nobility Whose entire oeuvre revolved around big band. I was competing with privileged upper class kids Whose lives had been cultivated from their youth To the rhythm of the organized struggle to revive, Or rather, keep alive an art form long past its prime. What I lacked in myself was not the talent for music, But the will to be enmeshed in such a system Wherein the hierarchy came enforced by whips And chains and the systematic humiliation of those Who had not 'paid their dues' by submission. It was this mutual enmity that rocked the boat, Not I. I had not come to college with the expectation Of finding a community of sneering sycophants Who lavished praise upon those who played the game More ruthlessly than others. O, they would have The world believe in their notions of hard work, And their magical fingers which tickle the keys To a beat new and different and oh so original, My God, the egos these people had, and still possess!

Do yourselves a favor and never send your kids to music school.

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2 weeks ago

The neighbors quietly go about their business, But rarely raise their heads to make eye contact Nor speak to me, for rumor and speculation abound That I am not a sane member of the community, And Boo Radley may be their only guide to tolerance Of my condition, for I remain somewhat ostracized And linger here long past the normative timeline In which sons and daughters must flee the nest. Some have known of me since we moved in, Some decades ago, and so saw me riding my bike Or playing with the child across the street, Or even scolded me for being in their yard, But now I am a walking wound, a sore, A festering pimple on the ass of existence, And it would be preferred by most, I take it, That I be whisked away to some far flung place To better the peace of mind of the neighborhood.

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2 weeks ago

But is my writing any good, my friend? Does it flitter above the masses or sink To the abyssal depths of hackneyed living? I honestly cannot tell, anymore, so blind am I To the extent my words impact the present, Nor do I know the opinions of each reader Who come and go as the wind and rain does In the southern evenings. Am I a talent, Or just another face in the grey populace? I defer to your beliefs, as I respect only you On matters of poetry and literature.

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2 weeks ago

Who built these paper cities? So temporary, And so damn ugly, these hideous monuments Not of brushed steel and heavy iron beams, But of flimsy cardboard, soggy in the rain. Was it us who constructed things poorly or our fathers, The ones who came before and so instruct us? Where shall the blame be laid? For nothing Exists that's worth protecting; nothing stands That deserves a foundation, if foundations Can be found these days, at all.

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2 weeks ago

'But your dreams lack originality in their form,' I said there to the boy, 'Scores of children dream, And most will fail to attain a semblance of their vision. Most will collapse as a consequence of bitter fate, Some will crumble quickly, and others will drag it out, All but a handful of lucky, delusional grifters will fall To the wayside, crushed underneath the ever rolling Engine that roars through the country's hills. You, my young friend, are the fodder, the chaff, To be fed into the furnace roaring at all hours. They put you all in and they burn you all up To see who might emerge from their miserable game Somewhat intact, and then proclaim them forged From heavy fires, and extol their 'excellence,' so-called, To all who listen and accept their ugly justifications. You want to be loved, I take it, admired by all, Enshrined in history as one who rose above the others, Well, so did I, and so do all who fail, my young friend, For no one dreams of mediocrity and irrelevance, No one dreams of the inevitable death that comes Fast and furious after all the glitz and glamor Washes away. For even stars burn out, eventually, And no amount of money or fame fools those of us Who see, nor do either delay or impinge upon The slow encroaching specter of time, which all Must reckon with despite their status or influence. There exists no end to the supply of young dreamers And how similar they all can seem from where I sit. Inside you lies a hope that might drive you mad, Someday, in the far flung future where all is lost, And the illusion of infinite possibility reveals itself To be a façade of thin shale perpetrated upon you Since birth, and every door remains padlocked, And every day begins to pass you right on by.’

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2 weeks ago

'In any case, Martin, that I banished myself Should be of no concern to those I freed myself of, Who were all too happy to forget I'd ever been, And did not express a shred of sympathy For the plight of one human being in a maelstrom Designed for the sordid sorting of souls. Besides you, Of course, but this goes without saying' "Though that's how it goes, I am glad you said it, For I cherish our friendship as dear to me As any golden trinket or gem laid therein,' Said Martin, with a forlorn look at the theater, "Though I sometimes disagree, I cannot help But feel the weight of your words upon my shoulders, As nothing makes me feel smaller than the judgment Of my betters-er, my forefathers, I suppose I mean.'