A Brief Word

Creative Forums Creative Writing
1

Perhaps not creative writing, perhaps a bit cliche…move to mundane babble if you see fit.

 Yesterday, I met destiny. 

 And, as I attempted to distract  myself

from thoughts of a future encounter
(the pond in winter and about half of spring,
to be Thoreau), I couldn’t help but wonder:
Could she could have a more torturous name?

 And, as I watched the sunset tonight, I grasped--

for perhaps the first time–the truth of all pursuits in life:
that everything we do is but a distraction from
The inescapable end.

 And, as I watched the sunset tonight, I felt--

for certainly not the first time–that sweet melancholy
when one notes that tragedy is perhaps
The most beautiful thing of all.

 And as I improvised a subtly blue melody

over alternating major sevenths, IV to I
its complexion seemed to me the same thing:
that ineffable union of timeless, languid beauty and
The sweet evanescence of tears.

 Paint a pretty picture for the dying ones.

It’s all we have.

2

Well written. As a guitar player,I fully understand about the 7ths added to minor chords. There really is a beauty in the blues that resonates with our senses of death and loss and somehow makes them bearable.
“Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought”(SIC)–Shelley

3

Perhaps not creative writing, perhaps a bit cliche…move to mundane babble if you see fit.

Yesterday, I met destiny.

And, as I attempted to distract myself
from thoughts of a future encounter
(the pond in winter and about half of spring,
to be Thoreau), I couldn’t help but wonder:
Could she could have a more torturous name?

And, as I watched the sunset tonight, I grasped–
for perhaps the first time–the truth of all pursuits in life:
that everything we do is but a distraction from
The inescapable end.

And, as I watched the sunset tonight, I felt–
for certainly not the first time–that sweet melancholy
when one notes that tragedy is perhaps
The most beautiful thing of all.

And as I improvised a subtly blue melody
over alternating major sevenths, IV to I
its complexion seemed to me the same thing:
that ineffable union of timeless, languid beauty and
The sweet evanescence of tears.

Paint a pretty picture for the dying ones.
It’s all we have.

I might be saying the same thing as your poem but I am not quite sure how to interpret the poem. So, if you agree, I apologize.

It seems to me that there are two options that are mentioned in the poem. Live in denial of death through distraction from the thought of death or live with an awareness that one will die. Your poem concludes that awareness of death and painting it as though it is “pretty” is the best that we have. The question, however, is whether this is good advice. On such an important topic it seems that atleast considering some other options would likely be fruitful. Could it possibly be that a person needs to be terrified by death and that this will make life all the more precious. Perhaps, this strategy works for some but not for others. In any case, I would think this strategy works best for those who are not easily beaten down by acknowledging their mortality. What is a medicine for some is a poison to others. With this thought in mind, I propose a change of tone to a painful acknowledgment of death and the realization that one must strive to counter death and justify its existence. Furthermore, this concept can be extended to all the terrible things of this world.

It is the cruelest thing that makes our voices sing.
Both cries of agony and songs of ecstasy.
For we must justify the previous conception of our lives
That was cruelly taken by the realization of suffering and every sort of tragedy.
It was once upon a time in our childhood lives that things seemed most free
And most of all less heavy.
When were not burdened by these thoughts of death and tragedy.
And exalted in the beauty of life.
To regain this precious stone it is necessary to acknowledge woe.
And from this woe now clearly seen rather than denied bring forth the previous innocence of our
lives.

4

No, there are no options. You will die. Everything you do until then is merely a distraction from that inexorable doom. The poem is supposed to feel insalubrious and bleak, like I was at the time. It’s not trying to limn but to excrete, not to in- but expire. It’s overexposed, oversaturated, and predominantly bokeh.

5

I think that you misread your own poem.
You were on the verge of a real instinct, but then got distracted by your artisanship.

Industriousness is death’s fearful enemy. Tragedy and music are death’s complexion.

6

I don’t think I’ve disagreed with anything in the underlined portion above (which I take to be your objection). If tragedy and music–both typically products of profound industriousness–are death’s complexion, and this very same industriousness, by which it (death’s complexion) is produced, is the means by which we combat our fear of death, then tragedy and music are cathartic processes induced by and alleviative of the fear of death. All I was trying to say in my response to rackedrick was that this ‘poem’, if it can be called such, was written not for theory, observation, poetry, or for any purpose other than the expression of a psychological state at a particular point in time.