Tuesday, March 21, 2017

A Day For A Lifetime (World Poetry Day)


For Jessy, and all the times we've played with words

***

There are days
Long days perhaps, or days often overlooked
Set aside for the sharing of ideas
Ideals
Ideally to conspicuously denote
Those who share the passion
Predilection
Predisposed towards the sort of thing
That we see fit to give a day to
Agreeing perhaps that these things are worthy of praise
Though we afford only a single day to share them
Today, they say
Is a day to celebrate wordplay
Something I find insufferable at the best of times
But through which I have found many things
Like a dear friend (more like family)
Far, far away
In a world that may as well be from the pages of a book
For all distance between us
I've also found a way
To write without writing 
Perhaps without writing well
Though I'm sure there would be hackles raised
If that statement were made in sincerity

There are people
Living these days
The long ones we peasants deign to acknowledge
Perhaps but once a year
Every day of their lives
With scribbled words
Or brush stroke
Or just appreciating who they are, where they've come from
The milestones reached
Things both within and without their control
Today is a day for poets
And lovers of poets
Tomorrow, though
A day for remembering the thirsty
And the day after, will be something else
But for each, we see only the days we know
Be it a day for science (November 10th)
A day for love (May 1st)
Or just for cookies (Decemeber 4th)
I think we all know
That these days do not stand alone
Mutually exclusive of the enjoyment of other things
Each of us, instead, choosing to live the way we love, the things we love

There is too much art
Even within a medium
To take a single day for any appreciation
And it may seem so cliche
To use it as my excuse to scan the works
Of Bukowski, Rimbaud, or Gibran
After long days of scanning textbooks
And preparing for exams
You won't find me sipping wine
Watching bad beat poetry on youtube
As if there was any other kind of beat poetry
Wincing delightedly at every un-ironic snap
And spoken word cliche
Spit with such candid vehemence
Like the poorly scribbled
Cliche-ridden angst, of every teenager
Or the childlike, saccharine of rhyming
Clumsy, or elegant
A cacophany of thoughts and emotions
Roiling through the mind and onto paper
Or into ears
Such sincere, heartfelt art
That even the worst is endearing
Because even the (subjective) worst is art