Below is the poem entitled The Ruination of Eli which was written by poet
White. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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"Come closer, you kids, let me tell you a story:
now you all see that there morning glory? Well
that was the blue of this little boy's eyes, born
right in this village; they named him Eli."
"Those eyes had lashes so black and so thick,
it sure was enough to make all us girls sick!
And his skin, do Jesus, was flawless and pure,
and smooth as this ole couch is, what's made of velour."
"Lord, he was held, he was never put down.
We girls took to totin' him all around town.
His hair was as black as a raven's wing,
and if that weren't enough, good God he could sing!"
"He just opened his mouth and out this voice came,
a voice that could put God's angels to shame."
"Now, y'all know how much fun little kittens can be?
But then they grow up, just filled with ennui.
Well, just like them kittens, Eli grew up, but he
was conceited and downright stuck-up!"
"Well, our village, we raised him, and we saw our mistake,
but by that time, humph, it was far too late.
He decided to grace the wide world with his presence,
get away from the village and all of us peasants."
"When he hit the big city, he was shocked and perturbed:
No one fell at his feet, no one praised him with words!
Perplexed and confused, he stared at his face:
his eyes were still blue, his complexion still chaste."
"His hair was still shiny and black as the night,
and his teeth were still even and perfect and white."
"What's wrong with these people?" he wondered out loud,
"Why isn't my beauty drawing a crowd?"
"Yes, he was still just as handsome, he touched his smooth chin,
not knowing true beauty lies under the skin."
"Well, what happened to him?" the children all asked,
"Did he come crawling back home, sad and downcast?"
"Naw, he actually did make it, he became quite a star,
he had the big houses, the money, the cars.
And girls flocked to him, but didn't stay long,
and he never did figure what always went wrong."
"So he died old and bitter, in his penthouse above:
childless and joyless, still filled with self-love."