I come now to reveal that shedding my skin beneath a solemn day may yet serve the soil before a long grave Love as thick as gruel pressed upon the heart in ceaseless laboring breath might have won the path to daily shared bread.
Moving in stiff accord without a voice to speak a shadow language we guard ancient grief in forsaken rooms. Tombs that once held truth now spill fevered tears— black dung houses bent— rot and shame sling mud beyond the dusk—hung by a thread of sorrow keeping its vow to old ghosts.
A virtuous soul with humor, warm and wise, Could nudge the world with truth and clarity, But sucks up, instead, vile lies as spin and bias rise.
Endowed with gifts that most do idolize— Fairness, thought, and deep sincerity— A virtuous soul with humor, warm and wise,
Should question jesters in their sly disguise, Who mock the world with false hilarity, But sucks up, instead, vile lies as spin and bias rise.
With open mind and kind, unclouded eyes, Such a one might uplift through true veracity. A virtuous soul with humor, warm and wise
Could become a beacon saving reason, as reason dies, Instead, parrots the jest from dull comedic duplicity, And sucks up, instead, vile lies as spin and bias rise.
So what remains of once-bright enterprise, But fog and shame and blunt stupidity? A virtuous soul with humor, warm and wise Now sucks up, instead, vile lies as spin and bias rise.
Desire coils in the mind and decays Its bite ignites the brainless flesh to blaze Each curse drips venom from the tongue A deathbell tolls as purple moods are flung The eye within the storm has lost its sight Mocking wails rise in the noise of blight Rag-wrapped pirates gnaw on rot and bone The youth infected with pride rot alone The brain contracts beneath the ice of hate No wings escape from earthbound fate Grief grasps and keeps pity by a rusted chain Liars scald the wastelands drunk and vain Trollops dance in blood-bathed rites obscene Their mouths and thighs altars of the unclean
America’s vastness unfolds under our tire tracks. Bright neon signs pulse against dusk’s darkening. Our restless souls push on into morning’s light, Chasing visions woven in the dust of motion. No walls cage our spirits’ craving new horizons. Tumbleweeds whisper secrets to passing breezes. Each mile hums a prayer beneath our steady wheels; Each new town willingly becomes our home. A scarf of stars drapes the traveler’s neck. Love’s luggage shifts softly in a wagon’s trunk. Divine murmurs rush from the engine’s drone. Silence sings where open plains stretch on and on. This country maps our desires in endless sprawl, Where every mile holds gratitude for the myriad paths.
her body and mind withered to whispers balance on the edge of collapse hollowed out shadowed by her hunger to vanish. she scorns the soft arc of flesh chasing instead sharp angles crevices where bones will prove her control. a swollen waist blasphemes against her creed – thighs spilling wide across a chair-seat churn her stomach – breasts rising bold beneath cloth choke her breath. full cheeks stout arms wide hips a budding second chin — all swarm like thieves in the night stripping her joy chaining her days. she’s a captive in a cage she creates — a sparrow swirling in a gale. scales and measures are not useful tools but tyrants commanding her to fast. she has carved her flesh to the bone yet one phantom of flesh lingers tilting the cruel glass that hurls her reflection back in her face with a relentless chant: just a fraction slighter – just a bit smaller just a breath thinner – just bit thinner just a fraction slighter – just a bit smaller just a breath thinner – just bit thinner & then her life will be in order.
Greenpeace cries, “Save the earth!” A university cop stopped me last night And gave me a ticket for speeding. Trying for a bigger bust, this soldier In the war on drugs took aim, firing His trusty service questions:
Are you drunk? No. Have you been drinking? No. What have you been drinking? Nothing. Uh, water. Are you high on drugs? No. What drugs are you on? None. Are you high on any drugs? What have you been smoking, toking, popping, dropping, snorting, shooting-up. . . ? Are you stoned, ripped, high, wasted, plastered, high, shit-faced. . . ? No. Nothing. No. Still buzzing with suggestions, The man tests my sobriety: walk the center line, Follow my finger, let me poke your eyeballs with my flashlight.
The Breathalyzer reads no alcohol. Humphing a grimace, our protector yanks off the plastic mouthpiece And slams it on the ground.
An Orphic Oath: To Enshrine a Standard of Excellence for Poets
Beginning poets should be required to take a vow equivalent of the medical “Hippocratic Oath.” If poets could be held to a standard of excellence, less doggerel would plague the literary world.
A Hippocratic-Style Oath for Poets
The Hippocratic Oath [1] is a covenant between the beginning physician and his profession regarding his conduct with patients. Perhaps such an oath for poets could be called an “Orphic Oath,” after Orpheus [2], the mythical father of music and poetry, who descended into Hades and then returned to Earth.
If beginning poets were required to take a vow equivalent of the medical “Hippocratic Oath” and, therefore, could be held to a standard of excellence, less doggerel would plague the literary world.
While all poets, established or aspiring, could benefit by adhering to a standard of excellence, it is the beginning poet who could most benefit from taking an artistic equivalent to the physicians’ famed “Hippocratic Oath.”
Does Poetry Make Sense?
Poets require standards. Many novice poets believe that anything that occurs to them to spew across the page in lines shorter than prose should be regarded as poetry. And many novices are convinced that poetry does not make sense and should not.
They think that words in poems always have altered meanings: light never means light, dark never means dark, smile never means smile—but must be interpreted or translated into some meaning that never approaches the literal meaning of the word.
For far too many beginning wordsmiths, words in poems take on a magic spell that renders them so other worldly that only the expert poetry reader or teacher can ever really understand them.
During my stint at Ball State University as an assistant professor teaching English composition, I discovered that some students thought of poetry as a discourse that could mean anything they wanted it to mean. And others believed that only the teacher could tell them what it meant; most students believed that as students could never figure it out for themselves.
As I was walking across the Ball State University campus, outside Bracken library, I heard a young woman remark about her composition professor, “She says my writing doesn’t make sense. But I write poetry and it’s not supposed to make sense.”
That remark told me a lot about many students’ attitude toward poetry. Many students begin with notion that poetry is “not supposed to make sense,” while others believe that somehow it might make sense to a teacher.
Aspiring Poets Need to Know Better
It is understandable for general studies students to begin with inaccurate beliefs about poetry, but by the time a young person has decided to write poetry, it seems that that aspiring poet would know better.
One wonders which poets such future poets admire. But the sad fact is that many would-be poets likely do not admire any poets, because they have never actually read and studied any poets or poems.
Another immature yet wide-spread belief about poetry usually held by those who have moved to a mid-level stage but who have not yet learned enough to remain humble is that to explicate, analyze, or otherwise comment upon a poem is to diminish its value as a poem.
That mistaken idea also stems from the notion that words in a poem always mean other than their literal meaning. These mid-level beginners hold that critical commentary on a poem turns out the light that mystically shines from the poem left unscrutinized.
If you are a beginning poet, or a mid-level beginner—even seasoned, published poets could benefit from this oath—you might do well to consider the following oath, which I have refashioned, based on the Hippocratic Oath to which physicians swear at the beginning of their careers:
As I [state your name] engage in my career as a poet, I solemnly swear to remain faithful to the tenets of the following covenant to the best of my ability:
I will respect and study the significant artistic achievements of those poets who precede me, and I will humbly share my knowledge with those who seek my advice. I will dedicate myself to my craft using all my talent while avoiding those two evils of (1) effusiveness of self-indulgence and (2) pontification on degradation and nihilism.
I will remember that there is a science to poetry as well as an art, and that spirituality, peace, and love always eclipse metaphors and similes. I will not bring shame to my art by pretending to knowledge I do not have, and I will not cut off the legs of colleagues that I may appear taller.
I will respect readers and ever be aware that not all readers are as well-versed in literary matters as I am. I will not take advantage of their ignorance by writing nonsense and then pretending it is the reader’s fault for not understanding my disingenuity. Regardless of the level of fame and fortune I reach, I will remain humble and grateful, not arrogant nor condescending.
I will remember that poetry requires revision and close attention; it does not just pour out of me onto the page, as if opening a vein and letting it drip. Writing poetry requires thinking as well as feeling.
I will continue to educate myself in areas other than poetry so that I may know a fair amount about history, geography, science, math, philosophy, foreign language, religion, economics, sociology, politics, and other fields of endeavor that result in bodies of knowledge.
I will remember that I am no better than prose writers, songwriters, musicians, or politicians; all human beings deserve respect as well as scrutiny as they perform their unique duties, whether artist or artisan.
I will not rewrite English translations of those who have already successfully translated and pretend that I too am a translator. I will not translate any poem that I cannot read and comprehend in the original.
If young poets treat their art as a trust between themselves and all they hold sacred, they will gladly follow this covenant and represent their chosen art gracefully and successfully.
Supporting Yourself by Writing Poetry
Aspiring poets needs to be aware that making a living solely by writing poetry is unlikely. They will, therefore, need to support themselves by other means, at least until they can ultimately parlay their literary reputations into full-time writing. An example of a contemporary poet who was able to parlay that reputation is Dana Gioia [3].
Sources
[1] Editors. “The Hippocratic Oath.” Greek Medicine. National Library of Medicine. First published: September 16, 2002. Last updated: February 7, 2012.
[2] Editors. “Orpheus.” GreekMythology.com. Accessed September 29, 2023.
Linda's Literary Home 
