Commander Poetry marches around the squad hall,
lecturing all the amateur soldiers on the discipline
of form and convention: the Sonnet, The Ode, Triolet,
Villanelle, War Epic, Paradelle and many more.
Commander Poetry slanders the troops into submission,
determined to educate them, bring them to their senses,
train with the utmost vigor of skill and tool required,
but they are despondent, lethargic, sloppy,
they don't want to hear a word of it,
they simply want to pick up their pens pencils
and create large spontaneous scribbles
write dodgy whim, a few poles short of some scaffolding...
The Commander is Furious! He cannot endure these Illiterate Soldiers!
He wants to march them up mountains and have them perfecting
the methodological craftsmanship of the Poetic Science Form!
He wants them shooting words with precise aim and intent,
not just target practice but intelligible clean shots, of highest order!
The Commander dismisses the troop and begins
to recite loudly, a truly humiliating couplet
against the folly of 'DIY! free verse foolery!'
The Poets leave quickly,
light cigarettes nervously,
talk amongst themselves:
'What a Serious, Fascist Bastard!'
Said one of the sloppy female poets.
'Indeed!' They all agreed.
'Haha...! If he wanted the fucking 'Brothers Karamazov',
he could have just gone to the bloody Library!'
Uttered one of the Manly poets.
They all walk home, agree to continue writing anyway,
(most of them probably couldn't stop even if they wanted to)
they return to their pens and pencils, table and chairs,
typewriters and quill pens and continue to write
their useless poor human prose...
meanwhile:
many beautiful things occur
sun rise milk and glancing
much horror much terror
world blood and bombshells
much private hell
anxious terrified and singular
much stupidity passes
dropping farts and nose picking
much absentmindedness
forgetting dribbles and hick-ups
and inevitably everyone soon dies
...including the Commander!
but some of the poems
survive.
