Defense of (bad) Poesie

I feel like I need to justify the two posts immediately below. The second one, with the Spice Girls reference in the title, was initially written about my now-ex-boyfriend and was full of florid metaphysical conceits of the garden as it pertains to fertility. Obviously I scrapped that. Gross. I still kind of liked it though – that part about the roses was initially part of the garden conceit but was a clever pun on the fact that I have Asian flushing syndrome blush a lot and am cute and all that and look nothing like a tomato when sauced.

So my ex and I met working at a restaurant, and he was a bartender (hence the nod to the spirits) and was nothing like a garden at all. Anyway, I began writing this poem to him after being struck by inspiration reading Donne, then was struck with mental constipation about two quatrains in. We broke up in the interim.

Then I started “casually seeing” another bartender. (It is important to note that this is how I get all my drinks for free. Follow my example, kiddies.) Though I’d scrapped most of the sonnet, I still had this one quatrain and the increasing urge to do something with it. Then by grace of U of T’s Topics in Shakespeare: The Sonnets and a goose quill pen my sister got for me at the Globe Theatre, the sonnet was completed. About a different bartender. Bartender The Second. Who is also nothing like a garden. Which is ok now since neither is the poem.

HOWEVER. The first sonnet, directly below this post, with the Scissor Sisters reference in the title, was written today with a pen full of angst. Apparently my friend with benefits, The Bartender II, doesn’t like his coverage plan. Has anybody else ever found a guy who said he was getting too much? I feel like I should stuff him and put him in a museum. Anyway so I wrote this sonnet because I was feeling Shakespearean after class today and there was my quill pen, all shiny in some parts and inky in others. And feathery in most parts. And then this sonnet was created.

And as an addendum: in both poems, substitute the word “love” for something of a more… unromantic ilk. “Love” felt more Shakespearean/Petrarchan (in the case of the first poem) and worked with the metre. Inaccurate, but it makes the poem sound squishier and gives it altogether more sappitude. Which is what I was aiming for, even though it was off target.

It’s a bitch convincing people to like you

More bad poetry from the wellspring of my inner fourteen-year-old’s angst ridden misery.

The love I bear thee, beneficial friend,
exceeding quite the level granted me
would seem to hearken our good friendship’s end
as flame burn’d with too much intensity.

You turn your eye from my poor, seeking gaze.
You hear not embassies of pleading want.
You leave me quite, and take your leave for days;
My strong advances fade from hale to gaunt.

Initially, you had return’d my love
with equal fervour, ardour, insistance,
’til more than your desire, mine soared above
and your desire increasèd our distance.

The steward of my body once before
shall be desire’s outlet nevermore.

A weekend love is all it was

Oh noetry – bad poetry!

My love does press the roses to my cheek
with spirits, or by spirits spoken true;
A sleeping world in gilt of morning dew.
A nighttime ritual, by night to speak.

To you I do by catchèd breath impart
the trials and the vict’ries of my lot;
The age that parts us sunder, heed ye not:
You know still all the content of my heart.

And yet you know, and I, we will be twain
inevitably in the course of time;
So to you now I dedicate my rhyme
in order that my memory remain.

So when our courtship be yet at an end,
Look on these words, and know me still a friend.