The Desolate and Wounded Heart of The Young Writer (A Parody)
It was just like Pride and Prejudice. Well, except it wasn’t quite as boring. Close, though. And the bass. If there’s one way in which our culture has really slipped, it’s the bass. Too loud. Nothing romantic about that kind of frantic, throbbing noise. The bass note tells you what the harmony is, if you didn’t know; maybe there is such a thing as being too upfront.
I don’t know who I was dancing with. I don’t mean that in the Austen sense. First impressions—I could barely see her. I could feel her though. Hopefully “her.” But enough about that. I tried to hold on, to find some semblance of a face to later poeticize, a name to hear in ruffling whispers of the leaves, but that pulsating bass prevailed over all.
The events leading up to this moment, this epochal social enterprise, were all filled, overflowing to the point of bursting, with this same absence of communication. It had been a last-ditch, desperate maneuver to gain entry into the heart of an idea whose grace and appeal are matched only by its chastity. If I may indulge myself, as seems now to be my fashion:
A Wednesday: Upon Walking Past The Cafe
I walk along the usual lane
But lately feel a prescient pain;
The deep, gray clouds stay just the same
But shadows deign not play the game.
A breeze may bold outright caress
An argument I dare not press,
And cloak does ripple with the glee
Of touch that never hands will see.
But that aside it told is true
That love itself cannot but rue
The early coming of the heart
To worship when there mere is art.
I see her sometimes, but I don’t know her name. That seems to be the thing all the women I like have in common. Once you know something about someone you lose the enormity of anonymity. I had the thought that, if I ever were so bold as to speak to her, we would have the convenience of already being in the proper location for that sort of thing.
Go Forth, Brave Skittles!
Upon my standing weary by
I noticed out the edge of eye
A swift skirt moving by the door
With ringing bells to usher more.
Entreats she me for but one thing:
(A priceless pleasure t’ hear her sing!)
A bag of candy, sweeter treat
Than I her for could e’er compete.
The coins do graceful fall from hand,
And looking fast I note no band,
But just the same I all would trade
To be that sweet for which she paid.
Yes, I have a rather unglorious job at a local supermarket. These poems are just a little something I do on the side to keep me fresh. I had wanted to be a writer, you know. It’s fine; I know lots of writers who do day-job sort of things like this until their works get off the ground. I feel embarrassed, but I haven’t even scratched the surface of the entries in my black book. That’s what they call that sort of thing, right?
Oh, Vicious Fate Upon The Train
Oh, vicious fate upon the train
That he did sit before you came
And took that seat which right was yours
And stole well what my heart adores.
(That’s a little thing I like to do—take out little words that aren’t important. There’s something called a “meter” in poetry where you have to have a certain number of syllables, so sometimes I just take out words to make the lines work. Shakespeare did it a lot, actually, I think. In this case I took out “as” in “as well”. Pretty neat, huh?)
Not only that but he did smell
And take a seat and half as well; (I did it again there)
I’m sure you would have been so kind
To pay your hygiene better mind.
If only he had been dear missed
And left, then you I could have kissed
Perhaps whilst sitting next to thee,
But now fear that will never be.
That one’s one of my better poems if I do say so myself. I really like that word thing I do. And I did some injambment; I think Milton does that too. But the one I’m the most proud of is coming up! This’ll explain what made me decide to go to that awful dance party.
Oh, Bright, Flashing Smile!
We wondering once walked where wild,
Wild wilderness was waiting, while
Thus thinking that the threshold through
There Thoth thanked, then thought threw thereto
To tumbling tongues, twain tripping too
Together tautly tied, terse trial two
Did daring deign do during dark,
Divine dear dream day disembark.
But breaking bright bid breed back bring
Brute brunt bathos badly bearing.
Soft sunrise sweet still senses seem
Since smiling she since I’ve seen.
Yeah I messed it up a little at the end but the last bit was tough. It was hard to maintain that alliteration all the way through. I had to become close friends with Mr. Dictionary. That was the very last date I ever had with that girl, and also the first. She was unique in that she did tell me her name, but when she took out her wallet I saw that her driver’s license had a different name on it. I don’t know whether she had a fake ID or whether she had given me the fake name. The number she gave me said they weren’t her when I texted them, at any rate. Anyways, I’ll stop overwhelming you with poetry soon, I promise. There’s just this one last one, about the dance party. I’m embarrassed to say that it isn’t as well constructed as the others, but I kind of just wrote it in a spurt of passion right when I got home from it. And maybe I was a little drunk or something.
I Never Saw That Girl Again
I never saw that girl again
Who bright amidst the spurling lights and passion
My heart aprived and fateful thus did keep.
The weary wandering morning tempered surely
Shall ensign my ling’ring love to duller duties
Than it but once living lived—ah, life!
That breaks the stars and riveting enfacets
Us here like the slaves of time and slav’ring
Lose our face to deeper tides than can
Imagine. But the soft spur of the moment
Spurious to seems sweet scenes does give
While logic take away. Do you know
The price to pay for but a moment of
Reprieve from life, th’ embrace of love?
Yeah so I guess I forgot to rhyme. Also I messed up the meter: it’s supposed to be in quatrains and I did…septains? I forget if it’s “sept” or “hept”; my roommate explained the difference to me once but I can’t remember. I had a hard time just deciphering what I’d written the next morning, let me tell you. But there’s something about that poem that I really like. I don't know what it is, but I thought it was worth including. There was something special about that whole encounter that I can’t really describe. It was freeing, in a way. Maybe I should write less poetry. Everything I experience seems to fit too nicely into these little twelve-line iambic quatrain sonnets. I don't know. When my writing career takes off, some poor scholar will spend hours and hours trying to figure out what that poem means. And to be honest, I don’t even know.