Rhythm and Rhyme Are Abandoning Me
BY AXEL PINPIN
Poet that I am, I can’t fish out a metaphor,
my love poems are devoid of lust and
spice, versification's uninspired,
modernism is stale,
beside ice-cold tropes.
How can I rehabilitate the farm
devastated by flood? What gold-glint
will sprinkle the grain
when the nickelled price of rice
is reduced to dirt rust
in the usurer’s granary?
Because shortage is black
and because starvation is black,
black will never ever turn to gold.
As the wise men
and national artists
and critics advised –
compose, compose and compose with care,
every word must bring a certain magic to it.
Structure the hate
into a whistling song,
gently tell a tale.
And so –
the gleam of leech fat
is golden in the field
moist and glassy when kissed by dawn –
in the dam
neatly stacked up
the bloated bodies –
of farmers slain!
July 21, 2008
After reading “I Know I’m Not Sufficiently Obscure” by Ray Durem