For whom do you write, vainglorious poet?
Who are the disciples you seek?
Shall converts worship at the altar of your prose;
Devoutly reciting your works?
Is there passion alight in your breast;
The call of some unknown muse?
Or does your pen labor of its own accord,
Guided by some universal force?
What is the sermon?
What message do you proselytize to the masses?
Shall all bow, or bend knee;
Demonstrably awed by your articulate compilations?
Self-fashioned prophet!
Or perhaps it is godhood you seek.
Author of verbal constructs.
Creator.
For who can judge your writing?
Who can look down their nose?
Furrow their brow?
Scoff?
For what you have crafted stands.
In grandiloquence or simplicity.
Perfect.
Crafted just so, and gifted to the world.
Can a critic better evaluate its worth;
Can the detractor eclipse the creator?
Perhaps then, it is he
Who fancies godhood the more.
A Grand inquisitor!
Laying to rest the heresies of your writ.
Sound the trumpets!
Send forth the drums of war!
Who shall emerge the crusade?
Shaper of public opinion.
Master.
God?
Researchers seeking solutions can’t say
things are the way they are because of God.
From Spirit, scientists must shy away
or risk their labors be seen as slipshod.
The fraction of them considered devout
must keep their studies apart from belief,
not daring to proselytize about
what brings their natures comfort and relief.
Faith remains outside their explanations,
despite convictions which may be affirmed.
No matter what profound implications,
their answers must be physically termed.
They want to know God’s thoughts, yet they resist
even acknowledging God could exist.
I have no brillance
as decadent decades
drowned into dullness
whatever light as promise
to animate a rosy write.
I have no sparkle,
or swirling syncopation
to proselytize, legitimize
this fling towards
imagined immortality.
I have no positive
uplifting union
ultimately here weighed down
by reality dawns
that creak trhough bones
fortuitously flung
towards creativity.
I am lazy.
ODER
Oder
A narrative poem in the charlax stYle
Benjamine: he hath an oder oh mye qyeen
Qyeen: yes he smells just like my camels butt
Benjamine: eye meanteth
He has a poet in toe
Qyeen: eye have a blister in toe it is on my left foot
Benjamine: the poet in TOW is the bard
Qyeen: a splinter from a board why are you so hard today to understandeth
Benjamine: he brings the bard in tow to proselytize to readeth prose and poetry
Qyeen: why would he carry the board that the splinter came from to show me his
toe would sufficeth
Benjamine: confusion reigns today
Qyeen: He is my Asian cousine.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.