Thursday, September 17, 2015

Give me a B, an A, an N, an A and an L. What does it spell? BANAL. Yay, Banal. Yup, banal.

I love writing poetry of the banal. Forget the profound, no-rime-no-meter-figure-out-this-message-poetry; let’s go with trite. Trite is truth for the un-literary. Trite is how the mind grasps concepts when it’s on overload from social media. Trite is politically incorrect—anti-establishment, yay, trite. Fill me up with it, lay me down with it, bury me in it. At least I get it.

Example of a poem that is not banal (trite):
A Girl by Ezra Pound
The tree has entered my hands, 
The sap has ascended my arms, 
The tree has grown in my breast- 
The branches grow out of me, like arms. 

Tree you are, 
Moss you are, 
You are violets with wind above them. 
A child - so high - you are, 
And all this is folly to the world.

(I see no sap on her arms)

My trite poem:


So much to say as racing hands rush by roman numerals
decades of painful, joyous, tedious moments
now jump onto the pages ripe for recording 
a life at dawn

A young child knows time in chunks of play
An adolescent measures hours in brooding
Busy mothers fill endless days with thankless chores and cookie dough

Pay phones gone, lives in pockets
words flash by from weary thumbs
messages sent in letters not syllables
life set on Fast Forward

“Slow down!” I cry
A family gone numb
feelings lost in screens and keys
faces glazed from staring down
brains gone dormant set on “Auto”

What happened to youth?
innocence unnoticed
grocery lists voice activated
“cowboys and Indians” politically incorrect

Reduced to Remote?
obese by design?
banal blossoms hang lonely
as the world rushes by

One journey is all from fetal to feeble
slow motion archived
watches extinct
memories are blurred 
too much in a hurry

Maybe I should take the pen name, “Fifi Ounce.”