(2012)
From poetry, to prose
From prayers to plays
Words are what fill all our days.
They are that with which we convey meaning.
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I open a book, and read aloud.
Words slip, drip, slide, ride down my tongue
Tumble past teeth to form a wreath of words that I’ll hang on my door at the holidays.
Welcome, reader. Peer over my shoulder.
Trip, stumble, tumble down into the thorny thicket of language.
You hold up a sword to slash through the archaic and obsolete
But the pen is still mightier, it will beat out doubt
As you scrawl down a dream, a lie, a cry calling for the world to change.
And yes, the world will change, rearrange, bury you with beautiful true stories of past lives.
Literature survives and thrives on the world’s past lives
It regales us with tales of what is right, and what is true
Why freedom is terrifying and why it is up to you
to choose your path.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
Let’s start with the old
With the aforementioned archaic
Because to so many prosaic minds
This beaten path with its flowery prose
Is dull as dirt
And those who read Hemingway,
Hugo, and Wilde
Belong in compilations of pressed pages.
But though I’m glad some habits are lost to the ages
(Like an exploration of the sewers of France
where even the rats have back-stories)
These old texts have their glories
Whether sprawling storylines or simple plots
They hold lessons learned and problems not so different from us.
Because maybe these stories aren’t so antiquated.
Even though they’re dated, and seem sophisticated
They’re still just stories written by people.
They’re the foundation, that modern creation
is built upon.
So let’s leap ahead to the now
And see how times have changed.
Nowadays, we’re all for dystopias
Oppressed people who hoped for utopia
and were delivered bitter truths in their morning coffee.
We see corrupt government and environmental disaster
But what lasts in our minds is the adventure and romance
Yet fleeting thoughts of the future betray deep rooted fear.
We could be that way, but it isn’t today,
so we continue to cheer.
And clearly Hollywood loves books
Because it looks like original ideas are disappearing. From bestseller to blockbuster before you can say Harry Potter.
Enter the arenas of literature, all put to screen
Hogwarts, Mordor
And meet Miss Everdeen of District twelve.
Katniss draws her bow, and we applaud the show
though we know that for her to succeed
23 kids have to die first.
This is how literature’s lessons are lost.
This is the cost of entertainment.
We become blind fools in the face of cinematic thrills.
So let’s take a moment to turn off the screen
And open a book
Even just a John Green
I mean look, he’s got teens pondering the mysteries
of the universe.
(Is the fault truly in our stars?)
But by far, what I love more than books
Are words.
Words spoken, words read, words left unsaid
From poetry, to prose
From prayers to plays
Words are what fill all our days
They are that with which we convey meaning.
So here we are again, in the thorny thicket of language.
And you should know
I have no mastery of prose
or great storytelling powers
I haven’t put in my ten thousand hours yet.
But I keep reading and writing and trying
Because my dream may be a dream that is dying
I fell in love, and I want it to matter
And I don’t want to walk on shattered dreams
To get to my future
To pursue something practical at the expense of my soul.
I want books’ smooth pages to cushion my falls
I want always for language to guide me
For spoken word to ring in my ears
And lyrics to bring tears to my eyes
My love for words runs Grand Canyon deep
I fell in love the way you fall asleep
Slowly, and then all at once.
This is me, on words. Sounds like onwards, like ahead. A head, what you keep your brain in. In which needs out, like up, which needs, down, like backwards needs forwards. Four words, like a number, like a small and important sentence. What’s a sentence with four words?
I live for words.
Thank you.