"Novus Purpose Poetry" and the Purpose of Art.

"My poems sing like nursery songs,
come join me, won't you sing-along?

I post them here on the slightest whim,
it's time to change my thoughtless vim."

So far, my "poems" have been very, very poorly written. Think of an indefinite theme, throw in some cheesy rhymes and big words, and voila! You have a clumsily thought out, shallow, rhythmically challenged "poem". In other words: a big, steaming pile of shit. That's not what I want. That's not what anyone wants to read, and if they do, there's already boat loads of it slopped all over the internet. From this point on my poetry is going to change. It will have a clear decisive theme, a rhythmic meter, and a correct rhyming scheme. This will probably mean less poetry is posted, but it will be worth reading when it is. I am going to change my poetic style and I refer to this change as my "Novus Purpose Poetry". Some would say I should attempt Free Verse, since it is simpler and I wouldn't need to worry about rhyming. I have nothing against Free Verse, but I am much more inspired by standard poetic form. I believe switching to Free Verse would be the easy way out. But, I will finally reflect the correct function of art.

"In a decaying society, art, if it is truthful, must also reflect decay. And unless it wants to break faith with its social function, art must show the world as changeable, and help to change it." - Ernst Fischer

I believe that quote sums up the crux purpose of art. Especially since, as far as I know, every society has been corrupt and decaying. Art needs to appeal to it's audience with beauty and simplicity, whilst delivering a message at the same time. It's needs to challenge or influence the audience's personal beliefs and ideals, and teach them a lesson, or show them a new perspective. If it does not accomplish that, I would throw it on the trash heap of "modern art". I do believe, however, art that is simply beauty for the sake of beauty is certainly acceptable, but I believe beauty delivers it's own message.

I am going to begin work on a massive poem which will be split into several different parts. As to how many, I am unsure at this point in the game, but it's definitely going to be a tough grind for me. I hope it will be an enjoyable and influential read for you. Thank you.

Unquenchable Verve

"What gives rise to that most capital call,

supreme purpose and predominant sway,

subsumed within our spirit, impetus of all?

Some simple satisfaction, to esurience allay?

Or is it the hunt which provides our purport?

Would cease of the search form a sinister folly?

Or perhaps exists a more marvelous report?

Is it force to be of a fallacious endeavor: jolly?

What spawns the grounds for each inquest I task?
Why does sense seem essential to mortal temper?

Could it be that reason is truly a delusive mask?

If withdrawn, would it reveal a mystical splendor?

The search is infinite, speculation will grow,

I must relish my hunt, for it is all I will know."

The timeless question...

The Stick that Killed the Rabbit

"Touch the stove, it is hot,
seared your skin, I told you not.

Learned the hard way, now you know,
pain is truth, within you grows.

Shouts and screams rains remorse,
defense and fury: spawns of force.

The carrot is the noble trick,
all men abhor the loathsome stick.

Before you now assume their trust,
advise them softly, now you must."

If you would like to advise me without threats, anger, or force I will probably give your advice a chance.
If this confuses you this might help: Carrot and Stick Idiom

A Tree that is Me

Yes,
I guess
you know best,
but why don't
I trust in
instructions
you gave?
I don't feel
hurt
'cause you gave me that
help,
but I don't feel
clappy
sappy
happy
I feel like a tree
a tree
that is me
I can see other
trees
and see all I see
but I've got no
feet
and I've got no love
all I have
is a tree
that is me
but I do have feet
so
why only can I
see?
Why am I not
free?
We use feet
to meet
but I haven't met
and I've got no love
just myself
and I'm a bum
"Don't worry"
you've said
"It will come"
but I do worry
and it hasn't come
and I see all the trees
but they can't see
me
sometimes it drives me
mad
and I've got no love
and I
I am sad.

What is so wrong with me?

"A man who deemed his mind as spent, and
never believed he was truly whole, he
doubted his own dream's ascent. Yet, is
rich within his momentous role, and
even if at times he feels shoved, he
will always be honored and always be loved."

Sometimes, you are much more than you think. This type of poem is called an Acrostic Poem.

Elation passed Sensation

"I wonder if I feel,
or if I'm just defeated,
I'd like to think I'm real,
but,
my ambition is depleted.

Elation has passed on,
sensation lasts no more,
why is it that they're gone?
and,
what let them out the door?

How can I live so hollow?
What drives my satisfaction?
only will I coldly follow,
yet,
what is my sad attraction?

It seems to me that since I wonder all these things,
deep within my heart craves back it's wings."

Do you ever wonder, sometimes, if you possess any emotion, at all?

Wrong is Right is Wrong

"I breathe well intent

I think

But as they say:

The path to Hell is paved with good Intentions.

As a PC chip

that has malfunctioned,

or

the birth of the

ugly duckling,

I am somehow

hideously 

lost within 

my own confines.

What I try and think

is right,

bites me back

as a rabid dog

is wrong.

Virgin of my purpose,

I have devoured

my angel wings,

with swift descent,

I try 

in every way,

to rid myself

of this ever foul

smoldering

smog.

Sorry

Forgive for 

being so

utterly

devoid of 

understanding,

but might

I ask you this?

If all I believe as right

is wrong,

am I 

so purposeless,

so pointless,

so pitiful?

Pathetic."

Sometimes my attempts to help are flawed, and that is detestable.

Grandeur Regarding an Eve

"Gnarled branches of a great oak against the pale backdrop of a cloudy sky. 

 Luminescent street lights glow orange, casting light on the road and any passerby.

The wind chills the skin and rain sprinkles on the glistening leaves, which once were dry.

The beauty of a serene evening so profoundly captured in the few tears that I cry.

The shadows cast a peace so calm, though I stand here alone, for a moment I fly.

Cherish the day, cherish the night, cherish the world, for a day will come when we will die.

The allure of the grand is simple, anyone can find it, all you must do is try."

Life is a beautifully intricate adventure, only you can write the story. Only you can decide the happiness of the ending. If you were to die today, would you be remembered tommorrow?

Pity the Messenger of Beggars

"We never saw the cold,

the sheer truth of their mold.

We start to comprehend the words,

so bold,

yet lost,

for the birds.

We ignore the simplicity of truth,

but we hear it's shout echo into void.

Our laughs,

so utterly false,

so deleriously enjoyed.

Inside the chasm so dark,

beyond what we choose to see,

pity the messenger of beggars,

over all we choose to be."

Just remember: we're all human.

Reflection

"Wrinkles etched from woe,

barbate forlorn bark,

rivers downward flow,

anguish made it's mark,

stole away the glow,

replaced with only dark,

my reflection status quo:

extinguish ecstatic spark."

The only thing that matters is what's on the inside.

Unseasoned Dawning

"Time to start anew,

gather every thought,

mixed emotions,

all askew.

I've found a reason to change,

so long,

it's overdue.

New paths discovered,

have been untrodden,

a fresh beginning,

the past is spinning,

miles and miles away.

The sun rises,

a fresh new day,

the future looks so dazzling,

take on unseasoned dawning.

Take your seat,

as it takes your breath,

and live with all new meaning."

Few things are as refreshing and inspiring as a fresh beginning.

Trapped

"I'll act a false role,

to hide the fact I'm trapped,

in my own skull.

The worst kind of jail,

every attempted escape,

I fail.

Created for swift destruction,

agonizing entrapment ends all means of construction.

Reduced to my knees to beg,

speech ceases to segue,

it blares,

unending,

in my head.

I tried to end the shame,

but in the end,

only I'm to blame.

Cut for Cut,

Flame for Flame,

tear the skin to kill the pain.

Please,

End my hurt,

stop the rain.

In the distance,

the day I'm free,

when my thoughts let go of me.

Blood of the soul,

fills the stormy sea,

within my skull.

Wriggle out,

my will is wrapped,

ceaseless doubt,

in my thought's I'm trapped."

To some, their body is a temple, to others it is a prison.

The Hands of Fate

"A praise of sorts to a friend that I hold dear,

a breed of man that seems to me a generation lost,

if for him I had one wish it'd be these words to hear,

for cause of him I count it joy that our paths had crossed.

There was a day my heart had ached for a companion to be,

that is when this dear soul by fortune befriended me.

Born to poverty he had all rights to act and bitter be,

but had not I known I'd guessed he was of royalty.

His thoughts and deeds, day by day,

proved his boundless loyalty.

Never could I ask of him a more noble friend to be.

Closer than the sun and stars,

partners till the end were we,

hours did we devote to playing on our guitars.

A secret dream of his a musician to be by trade,

all day to play for crowds and folks to hear,

but no faith had he in the compositions he had made,

I'd tell him people would have loved his songs,

if only he were here.

A valarous man, sad but precious, and my only mate,

I wish it were as simple as changing a clock,

to change the hands of fate, it crushes me so,

that it is something only to be viewed after, 

for you see the other morn,

I found my only friend hanging from a rafter."

Never take anyone for granted.

Drowning in the River of Acheron

"Motivation

and,

Inspiration,

surreptitiously supplanted by,

desperation

and,

suicidal

ideation.

If potential,

is so sadly

squandered,

why should I

carry, 

carry onward?

'Stop!'

'Talk!'

Say you.

But would it not,

certainly serve

you

alot,

if I cut the silk,

so seductively

restricting me,

to this torment

termed terrene

paradise.

Slit the silk,

that binds

my torture,

ferry me

away

to Hades,

my home."

The River Acheron is a significant river in Greece, and was called 'The River of Pain and Suffering" in Greek Mythology. When someone died in Ancient Greece, they would have a gold coin put into their mouth. This was so that they could pay Charon to Ferry them across Acheron to Hades, if they couldn't pay, they would wander the shores of Acheron for eternity.