I remember when your voice was my mother's,
measured cadences at the mirror, adjusting
my collar, smoothing unruly hair. Now you've
burrowed deeper than her inflection, nested in
the soft matter where I conjugate inadequacy
like a second language, fluent in the grammar
of not enough. You've made a home between
synapses, furnished it with decades of almost,
a museum of moments I should have said
something sharper, stood straighter, been
more. Some nights I hear the echo
of that first voice gentler, trying
to protect me from the world's
sharp edges. But you've honed
yourself on them instead,
become blade
more
than
shield.
Inner critic I try to silence
Inner critic it makes itself at home,
It started years ago keeps me up at night, don’t bother being kind because it will just second guess your meaning.
I've tried everything to turn it down
But it don't fight fair (fair), and it's always there (there)
Inner critic won't let no one close
Makes me doubt the ones that care the most
'Cause this parasite ('site) is the jealous type..
Why can't I ever let me win?
Why can't I take a compliment?
'Cause everyone says the nicest things
But I'm never good enough for me
Why can't I let myself feel loved?
Am I afraid I'll mess it up?
Something is broken in my brain
I'll never be good enough for me..
Inner critic never been this loud,
It’s starting to come my outer critic ..
He used to take his lectures with a cigarette and a
blindfold.
Can you publish a single sentence?
Didn’t work for James
won’t work for me
choclate sorbet
sunday
in the pipe playing
old mexican sweat
from an old tube amp
and how’s that for a sonnet?
Close but no dice
this ain’t horse shoes
and you ain’t no hand gernade
ten stone gained
while im ten stones lost
stoned in the gutter
wasn’t me on mr ferris’s window grate
too bad
no one likes the blues anymore
and the inner critic keeps chewing away
through the poems like I’d left them
for the rats
real sick son of a
to dissolve one’s own work
never made sense
didn’t have to
makes sense
and then you name it
god the names
the fonts
it’s the title of a Piece after all
too much noise
interferance
bad baggage send it out
its not mine anymore
and so the poems go
The Poetry Critic
We have ourselves a critic on poem of the day
Like being a good parent, it’s not quite his forte
I think what we’re seeing is a little Vulcan blood
His words are illogical and they drag through the mud
Some call him a king as they walk hand in hand
They should start reading the lyrics of his little boy band
He preaches forgiveness but falls a bit short
All I keep hearing is his cutting retort
No matter what you’re trying to say,
be it in your poetry or song.
There’s still going to be an expert,
who’ll tell you that you’re doing it wrong.
I think maybe there is something skewed,
going on in their philosophy.
I wonder what makes them the expert,
on what my poetry means to me.
That is what I tell Joyce:
She's got a world's free choice
To fasten words of praise
On a thing without base
Or take a snake's poise
Raising a critic's voice...
Over rubbish rejoice
Like she'd done as free Joyce
Because she had the choice
To make an impure noise
Yet, it shall count later
One failed a life better:
Spoke no healing letter...
Caged self with fetter.
Edgar Alan Poe Is dead. Seriously, I read it.
He died in October 1849 - or did he?
Do we really know?
Poe wrote about death a lot,
he teased with it, it was his favorite tool.
He kept death close and twisted it like a knife.
His profession was the macabre, the shadow,
the summoned dread and the gruesome aftermath.
He was a writer and a critic - what’s more dreadful than a critic?
They say he died from “unknown causes"
- how absolutely perfect.
My brother, one year younger
and an athlete of some note,
once found my private notebook,
seeing poetry I wrote.
Before that day I fancied that
my writing held some unction;
I worked to craft each poem so
to serve a noble function.
I'd rather hoped each one would stir
its reader's soul profoundly,
but brother claims their value lies
in helping souls sleep soundly.
written 5 Feb 2023
That is a persnickety pussycat someone said.
She eats daintily with forethought, fork close to her head.
She wields a knife in the best technique of all.
Stabbing her fish with pizzazz and timely gall.
She is a food critic, she has wily wide ways.
Tasting our kibble and bits with tartar sauce glaze.
We see her doing it, and we cringe, waiting for her critique.
As a food critic goes, her reviews are harsh and unique.
Singing to dog
she bites me
music critic
I
Do you connect with struggling writers
Would you know it
Harry the Weaver, poet
Graces communities, fraternities,
(Sororities, too?)
II
To have someone read your scraps of work
Going back as far as is feasible
prince HH reads closely, generously
With the gentleness of weavers,
Care, calmness, goodness - fruit of the Spirit
Makes it tolerable to wait to be heard
Pleasure to be respectfully read
To be free to write FREELY, profusely
Fragrance of words I’m, who are you?
Romance of lines brought in from blue,
Make words dance in rhythm,
Cut out noise in freedom,
A poet asked: so, what’s your view?
I wield a sword vibrant of hue,
A species that poems review,
A slayer called critic,
I tick ye off, one tic,
I work in ways you’ve not a clue.
This is how a poet might view,
But critic would contest and sue:
I keep pens pry, whetted,
That, words are well-vetted,
Unless I rate, whither will you!
__________________________________
Tongue-in-cheek |29.12.2020|
Topic: poets, critics
Limerick: Once a great and wise Commentator
Once a great and wise Commentator
Thought what escaped him escaped Creator
His oeuvre his whole life dreamt
By his comments he meant
The whole world loved him as their Tutor
(c) T. Wignesan – Paris, September 5, 2021
Moment we are critical of our critic ~ we become a critic
03.07.2022.
Submitted to Bite Size Poem no 10, Line Gauthier
Within without inside out screaming
The pain is unbearable you beasty twit
If you would just lose a leg or an arm
Crippled down bunched up dreaming
Your back is like a rack of ribs on a spit
Shut off this awful belly juggling alarm
Turn up turn out cantankerous filled brain
Take a damn load off before you faint
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