A Poetic Conversation

By JX Ho

This is a strange poem

about a conversation

I had with a Friend

One day,

I had an urge to utter some blasphemy:

my name is Legion, for we are many.

Demons, not in the mythical sense

But existing nonetheless; within me.

Schizophrenic I am not; or maybe I am.

Maybe, we all are, to a certain extent?

I really think I am going crazy.

This dilemma, welling inside of me.

You’re not, My Partner says with a smirk.

I am here to clear your mind.

Faustus you are surely not; neither am I the Angel nor Devil.

(I like to think of myself as a separate, unique entity, he smiles.)

So there’s no need to worry about losing the soul,

(Only perhaps a part of your mind.)

Forget the rhymes of the old, he continued

the form, structure, iambic pentameter,

(I don’t even want to start off on the same line and page)

stress un-stress stress un-stress stress un-stress stress un-stress stress un-stress stress un-stress stress

till you’re really stressed.

Verse should be free – (look at me!)

Free as the wind. Free

~to fly~

away, He insisted. Like this.

(He admitted later that it was kind of forced. Much like this.)

But there must be a good reason, I say,

To forsake all that has been fixed thus far.

Most Poets in history walked this way,

Focusing on the lyrical…

(At this he scoffed aloud, interrupting my train of thought.)

It’s just this ongoing titanic battle, I raged on nonetheless,

Between the conscious mind, and the sub-conscious soul.

To write something that sounds really really sound.

Something abiding the stream-of-consciousness theory,

the way I’m using the fixed term so freely now.

Of course it’s supposed to come all naturally to me,

everything unthinkingly making senseless sense,

as long as it makes sense, in some perverse way.

Even if it exceeds by three lines in a standard sesta rima,

and now four as the rhyme scheme is rendered non-existent,

and finally five as I discover the lack of syllabic control.

That is, my Friend interrupted somewhat unnecessarily rudely,

poppycock.

Narrow-mindedness gets you nowhere,

only resentment that blinds your mind.

What’s wrong with writing what you feel,

(and no more,) at the exact point of time?

My rhyme in mind and time wasn’t intentional,

It just came, unlike yours which was thought,

It just came because it was supposed to come.

That, he rasped, is lyrical, good, poetry.

And screw the lines and syllabus.

And especially, all that fixation with HiStory,

since nothing matters except your own.

Not so, unconvinced, I thus insisted.

That was a stroke of good luck unforeseen.

True it may be that truth comes untainted,

unconcerned with other thoughts that mean

Is it then by coincidence as seemed,

that hi and bye have the same end rhyme scheme?

Don’t you see the point,

my Friend said patiently yet impatiently,

That I’ve been trying to knock into your damn head.

Swift said to Gulliver (like I said to you)

Why construct something (like a building)

If it is just going to be first set on fire

then doomed to stink (in pee) eternally?

Tell that to the Queen! Gulliver wailed.

As you will tell me soon enough.

Is doing something that will end up in stink,

worth saving at all?

What does the Queen think anyway?

Soon each verse will seem like a rigid rock,

for you aren’t Wordsworth, for crying out loud!

And you not T.S Eliot, I retorted,

feeling very pleased with my smart comeback.

Although still slightly disorientated.

I could now see in his fortress a crack,

Similar to mine, a contradiction.

That threatened his entire argument.

You see, I said when he remained silent,

(A rare sight, though sadly not that often)

If one writes to avoid structure and form,

is not that the same as adhering,

to a structure, which you mock as the norm.

It is hypocrisy in the making.

For no one knows whether you tell the truth,

Or just a fake who really is uncouth.

Now now, my Opposite interjects,

there’s no need to be hasty nor snide.

For all we know, it’s just two sides of a coin.

We choose what pleases us most

It does not actually have to make sense,

Much like Archimedes’ Paradox,

Content and form are equally important,

yet not so at the same time,

thus which displaces the other

is like the chicken and egg question

which comes first?

(I think the chicken, but I can’t be sure.)

A poem should not mean, but be.

To be: what the hell does that mean?

To be strong, subtle, strange or stingy?

Words that aren’t contrived

are supposed to have meaning then?

If something does not have a purpose,

in this world at least,

does it really exist? Can we really see it?

Or more importantly, why should we care.

If a tree falls in Brazil, do you care?

It doesn’t exist. Not to me at least.

Emerson said that all men live by truth,

and all too stand in need of expression.

What kind of truth, and what kind of expression?

Unconditional adulation?

Maybe

the perfect poet seeks the perfect audience.

Maybe you were right in some, and I in others.

Maybe the right balance is what we all seek,

Maybe, I smile as he smiles, we aren’t that different in thought.

Maybe… the perfect audience has been me. All along.

Or maybe, the answer is that… there is no answer at all.

And with my bare fist I smash the mirror.

and that's the poem i am going to submit for tomorrow's poetry assignment.

it's all coming to life again, all the old things in my life. and once they sprout, they die. does anyone feel like dying everyday? i find it harder to wake each day. just wondering if it's just me.

anyhoo now. i am in the weiqi national team now and hating every moment of it. hate is probably too strong a word; i do admittedly enjoy certain moments of respite. but i guess things just never change. things never really change; you just think they change, and maybe they do, just a little, but the main bulk of it remains in existence. sometimes you just know. doesn't help that i feel i've reached this stage of stagnation.

i need to go ask ching about my poem now, but i'm too lazy.

i need to ask jen crawford whether i can extend my word count, but she's not replying. shall need to drag my ass off the couch.

speaking of something that seems to be looking up. man utd has life without ronaldo. that man giggs, i've been watching him for the past twelve years, and he doesn't seem to lose his genius. ah well, geniuses will be geniuses. that's what we call the elite.

love life love life love life love life love life. what do i know? what happened to the angel la. what will happen to me la.