Best Essays Poems
We have to write a lot of essays
and I love it - the twisting of words,
the molding of nouns and verbs until
thoughts are clear and paragraphs
sit symmetrical and idealized.
I’ll write a paper, and scowling,
write another version and another
- lavishing them with attention
until every word is perfect.
I miss handing in papers though
- paper is substantial, not virtual
and even if a paper wasn’t well received
at least you took a tree down with you.
.
.
“You have to write an essay every week, 2000 words” the professors say. The classes groan - but I smile.
The Dead Essays
Today I wore all black
But there is no funeral procession.
So I just went to work and sat at my desk
Before piles of essays which need to be read,
A red pen in my hand -
Because I am old school
And the students can deal –
And it would seem that women
Of the mid 1900’s were being oppressed
And that is the reason they were all insane.
Yes, all of them. It is clearly stated in paragraphs two and three,
The introduction and the sad excuse for a conclusion
Which is hanging on at the end like some sort of cough.
And here it would seem the student forgot all syntactical purpose
And I am quite certain “When women were alone”
Is not a sentence, and yet it is punctuated as such,
A big fat period where there should only be a comma.
The chop, chop of simple sentences
And yet I am relieved because at the very least,
It is a sentence… no matter how misguided the idea.
Oh, and the idea because today women are equal to men
In every possible way, and I hope the tone is sarcastic, biting, a little ironic,
But no… it is not.
This child does not know to capitalize I
Let alone how to portray through language
A tone which is biting, satirical, humorous.
It would seem I am dressed appropriately after all.
Why I Love Writing Poetry?
Did I mean why I love writing poems?
Nevertheless, I love writing poems or poetry:
To simply have fun, make others happy,
Inspire and defend others; to fan the flames
Of fairness, and to seek justice, fairness for the weak,
The innocents, the underprivileged, and the sick;
I can go on and on until I lose consciousness.
I love expressing myself with elegance and neatness.
Ordinary jerks always make fun of the Poets, that's not new;
And the Poets know darn well how to take care of them too.
Poets have thick skin; they are Heroes without fears.
They struggle, fight, write, raise hell and wipe their tears.
Sorry, if I am going astray, that's what I do best,
Sometimes, like any human being, I like to make a mess.
That's why I love writing essays, poems or poetry:
To simply have fun, and to make others happy.
At the same time, I want others to criticize, and castigate.
I make my own decisions, and can determine my own fate.
Poets have thick skin, and by nature have no fears.
Please swallow your frown, your smile, and wipe your tears.
Hebert Logerie Monday, January 26, 2015
Pale sun, gray sky
Shadows long on the wayside
Bright lights inside
Words hide
Closed door
Balls of paper
On the floor
You don't give
I can't take
Ink still in the pen
Page still blank
Empty mind
The past unkind
Half-dead
Half-mad
Lending life to men long left.
Did Cavour hinder the process of Italian unification? NOOOOO!
Please Pogo music, wake me up. The night, now reduced to warm laptop light, is inching toward dawn. I pray to the patron saints of writers - is it Neri or Ávila? Whichever is on call I suppose.
“I’ve indulged in reprobation,” I confess, openly to the fuzzy, waxing, crescent moon. “I need that alchemy that turns coffee and a rough outline into an actual paper.”
I yank off my hoodie, fling my window open wide and hang myself out like wet laundry. Have you ever tasted vodka? Vile stuff really.
The forty degree breeze feels like heaven and my eyes begin to focus. I peel off my leggings to let my entire skin tingle with cold.
My Keurig beeps confidently. I found a couple of peanut energy bars in my bookbag and rip them open like a junkie who’s discovered a forgotten stash. I devour them so quickly it’s like a magic trick - then I brush my teeth.
I take several slow deep breaths. I can DO this, I assure myself, but my outline looks adequate at best. I need this done so I can relax with a super bowl party pizza Sunday.
The song “Data & Picard,” sets me to dancing, “It’s better to have loved and lost..” Patrick Stewart as Jean-Luc Picard pronounces, perfectly auto-tuned to the music.
I love this song. I love the night. I love the challenge.
I set myself to the task and finish, three hours later, as the sun breaks into morning.
Dad you told me that life was like chapters,
had that, got it- but I think we live books !
Sad, but also lovely to think this way,
mad, crazy- we have within us notebooks !
Essays written on eternal pages,
malaise and happiness for us to find !
Gaze at, or re-live that moment again,
maze - is what I call the books in my mind !
_____________________
June 8, 2021
Poetry/Lento/Essays on Eternal Pages
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1361-985-08
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Lento - 8 lines
sponsor, Joseph May, Judged 07/04/2021
Second Place
You wish me to write,
To create something grand.
Something for a purpose that I have yet to understand.
Something I don’t care for,
Nor something I like.
But still I am forced,
Against my will to decide.
Let me write of love,
Let me write of hate,
Of anger and pain and times that have changed.
Let me write my soul,
Put my heart on paper.
Allow me; tell you of my past,
Of the terror of the future,
But do not force me to write of a stranger,
Of another’s joy or their love.
Do not give me their views of life
And tell me to write what it means.
For I know not what the story means to them.
You may see life and joy,
In words that meant pain.
You say it is about the beauty of nature
But what if it is about destruction,
The cruelty of humanity?
How the world has fallen apart?
How death may be but at last a reprieve?
You see joy and love and wonder.
But what if the view is different to the author?
What if the sun was not truly so bright?
But instead to them was a horrid, scheming light?
What if the green of the world did not mean pure and clean?
But instead meant horrors of envy unseen?
Tell me then the truth.
Why do you not write this yourself?
You cannot, can you?
Because you also know not of their truths.
You know of yours
And of your own bias.
But you know not what they meant,
The author of this story.
The author of this life.
And yet you break apart every little line.
A poet writes to tell their soul,
And a poet’s enemy is an essay.