My Poetry Year: Entry #9

In which Your Humble Blogger takes a giant step backward and runs into the always-open arms of formalism, to lousy effect:

"The Vulture"

The muse has a deal, if you want to make it:
Write death, and your subject will always be known.
But what kind of vulture are you if you take it?
What kind of artist are you if you don't?

* * *

Ah, mother@#$*er. Why did I do that? It seemed I was finally getting somewhere by writing according to syllables, and then, what do I do to follow it up? I put out this cutesy little snippet of thought that attempted to be smarmy and witty and didn't pull it off so cleanly.

I do remember what influenced the idea behind this poem: At the time, it seemed that a lot of the published poems I was reading focused on death. "So," my cynical brain said, "writing about death gets you published, eh? Way to make the misfortune of the deceased work for ya, poets of the world!" I don't think I really feel that way; there are a lot of legitimately touching and startling works about death out there. I just get cranky, knowing that I'm not yet at the skill level I want to be, and sometimes, it comes out. Unfortunately for those of you who might read this, it sometimes comes out in the form of sub-par poetry.