Finishing up the series started here and continued here, here are the last of the poems that I found from my high school days.



I think the subject was “Why I am a poet,” but of course I was not happy with being so labeled, due to a heightened sense of the opinions I stated about poetry back in the first post, and of course I had to do my own thing anyway. Oh, high school..

Why I Am Not A Poet

I am not a poet. I am a
Mathematician. Why? I can’t imagine
being a poet for one. Also:

You can’t write poetry about math.
Cirimele and the good poets say
“math doesn’t flow, you can’t feel it.”
Sure it does; long after I’ve
finished writing this page-long poem,
I will find solace in math.

Pages upon pages of pencil
scratchings, crossed out theorems,
variables and constants. I can
get up, leave, and not come
back for a year. My writing
style may have changed but
my math style never does.
Variables and constants.



Again, not quite as sarcastic and would-be satirical as the others. I’m sure it’s based off of something but I can’t remember what.

Picture Of A Dog in Mexico

His (her? its?) eyes are glancing furtively back, towards what?
His cast-off ownership revels in the novelty of his new found freedom.
Paws down in the dusty soil of Mexico,
the dog looks as if it is accustomed
even in its menial existence to poverty,
its fur rippled against the slight breeze.

He doesn’t match the stereotype of dogs in the States.
But in a way, he does. He’s not been groomed, hardly seems loved.
And yet, he is happy.
Like the other dogs I know.
He looks ’round again, searching for someone, anyone.
Still, he’ll be happy even if he doesn’t find anybody.
Even if he’s alone after a month.
Even if he’s alone forever.



This final poem I’m sharing was, at the time of its writing, my second greatest achievement (the first being Loveseat the Musical. It is seriously awesome. Maybe some day I’ll post it here.). It was published in Indigo, our school’s arty darty publication journal, and I got to read it at Indigo Night. A style imitation of Alan Ginsberg’s poem America, it was written during the height of my Neo-Con phase and its subject matter was chosen largely for the humor associated with saying the name over and over. Be gentle.

Uruguay

Uruguay
You suck like a Hoover.
I’m tired of hearing your name
Uruguay
I’ll never travel to your shores.
Do you even have shores?
I don’t know
Nor do I want to
Uruguay
I can’t believe I’m even
Wasting this much time on
You.
You poverty-stricken wasteland.
You and your GDP of less than five thousand US Dollars
Uruguay, are you even listening to
Me?
I don’t think it’s the responsibility
Of the developed nations
To develop
The undeveloped.
Uruguay, go increase your own economy.
Uruguay, why don’t you go cry to the UN?
Uruguay.
I’m a hardcore capitalist.
I believe in free markets.
I don’t believe in Uruguay.
What is your governing body?
Is it a man?
Two men?
Do they care about what’s best for Uruguay?
I don’t.
Uruguay.



So there you have it. Thanks for joining me on this short sojourn into the past to dredge up ancient writing styles and high school angst. As far as creativity goes, I still am not sold on poetry as the World’s Greatest Creative Outlet, tending now more toward composing, debating, and changing the lyrics of pop songs to be as verbose as possible (My personal favorite: “If you admire it, then you should have encircled it with a metal band”). But who knows, maybe this little scrapbooking session will spark some future creative writs. IF ONLY THERE WAS SOME MEDIUM BY WHICH ONE COULD SHARE CREATIVE THOUGHTS AND WORKS OH THE HUMANITY