Ars Poetica

I’m kind of a massive nerd. I wrote this last year for a poetry class, it’s my take on an Ars Poetica.

~

Breaking Windows

Words, the right sound, the right shape, the right rhythm, words that last forever. That’s what you do, Will. You choose perfect words.

-The Doctor to The Poet

 

1: For Professor Scott Hatch

Write as though your words are bricks going through windows.

I remember what you said, so I’ve tried.

Not so much when speaking, but with writing.

I try.

I picture them coming from the deepest pits in my stomach;

wrapped in cold winds to sting,

pulling at the muscles that line my throat,

not to drip from my lips like a leaky faucet.

I know they’re meant to pierce eardrums,

at least, if not hearts, just so they will be heard.

So meaning won’t be lost in sound anymore,

so when they land, wherever they do,

they’ll leave cracks in the pavement.

 

2: Brick

Hard purple-red grit

Crumbles off when it is touched,

Set down, and looked at,

But will never get smaller.

Heavy and good for throwing.

 

3: Onomatopoeia

In a shoebox store, roughly the same

shape and size as a literal one,

standing in front of comic book

stacked chest of drawers,

I flick my finger pads across

the top corners of the single issues.

Sometimes the trade paperbacks,

if I can afford them.

I had to travel to the very back to find them.

Past the boxes of the role-playing

game boxes and tables.

The Dragon’s Keep regulars

only sometimes see a girl searching the shelves.

They observe my movements closely.

Too closely. Wheeeeze when I interrupt

their game play by passing through.

I find my three, my favorite three

heroes from the better

known comic book ‘verses.

I pay for them, walk to my car,

sit and lock myself inside, then

peel back the stitch of scotch tape

and gulp the India ink pictures.

Batman from Detective Comics.

His lips part for only

bared teeth. Sharp pearls

hold more speech back

than blood.

There are the classics;

biff, kapow, whiff.

They’re chosen with more care

these days. When he’s thrown

panes explode.

Wade. Wade Wilson.

Deadpool.

The Merc with the Mouth.

Ahem. From Marvel.

The panels open with him

busting the fourth wall like

The window he’ll krunch through later.

He has two inner monologue

caption boxes; a white one spilling

into a yellow one, what’s left

pours over his tongue.

Not a syllable wasted.

Hellboy, my first,

from Dark Horse. Awed, odd

panels of monsters, one of them

our Hero. Like the Caped Crusader,

there are mostly scenery

and crevices

and black.

Two or three dialogue boxes at

most per page, fewer thought bubbles.

Something large is coming,

It booms cobble stones,

creaks past trap doors.

HB bumps it back into the night.

I’m done flipping through

my three, I’ve been bitten by

the cold enough.

Click the key, rev the engine,

turn the radio on.

I’ll trail the lines and colors later,

hold the words in my ears now.

They’re clearer, apt. Better,

not as many can be used.

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