A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years. Try the RANDOM button to sample the sometimes surprising breadth of quality (and in several Novembers, breathtaking quantity as well), or click the "ANY GOOD" label* for those poems labeled with it. On any poem, old or new, feel free to offer your remarkable insight or critical acumen.

*I haven't yet revisited many pockets and stretches of time to appraise and label the "any goods," so some are missing. Please feel free to point out omissions, or - especially - erroneous inclusions, in comments.

but aren't they all random?

Tuesday, August 06, 2013

source material

I know you aren't trying
to write songs. But what
you wrote
just there
has the makings of a monster chorus!
I don't mean some damn singalong, I mean
like somebody increasingly tearing
their heart out through their
fuckin THROAT as the song
progresses,

God, what good
are all these second-guesses? Like life
should be looked at again, once lived
and turned into source material - how
does it ever do good, being a songwriter

if all you do is feed on your worst doubts,
fears,
panics and catastrophes, some
that haven't happened yet, what good
is being a songwriter if
it makes you just envision
the worst
and then say "hey,
I could hum to that"
it's like...some evil asshole
demon on your shoulder, wanting you
to feel the worst pain that you ever felt,
the worst pain that it could ever turn into
something catchy!

Not even something beautiful.

That demon just wants to bob its
head and grin and be entertained
by the awful source material you bring,
to feed to it, to feed it, like
some demented rumplestiltskin imp,
it takes all the sun-burnt, dried-out straw
your life has harvested into barns, and it begins
spinning it to gold, but oh
at what price.

Not your first-born only, no -
but every born you could have had in this life,
every innocent being you could have brought,
every innocent feeling you could have wrought,
every joy or pain that could have simply been:
a moment,
an experience,
here today, then memory: the demon spins,
the demon spins.

And you have a another
song.

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