"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.