The Obituarist

Ironic impasse
 ended by inference
Impelling ink
 expels indifference

Dirge draws up
 to dustbowl parchment
Deadbeat driver
 ushers disembarkment

Faltering feet
 and graven earth meet
Furrow-faced field
 increasingly bleak

Gritted gravity
 sheds tearing ballast
Ground-bound griever
 lamenting at last

[Description »]

 This piece is of a similar vein to 'Wretched Reflection', although the writing being portrayed is, from the beginning, already in the awareness of the futility and wretchedness of the writer. In a way it is a continuation of that piece, as well as of 'The Observer' (as evidenced in the first verse), but is finally a response greater than that of mere observation.

 There is no subtlety of structure in this piece, but it does heavily employ the use of metaphor, word-play, and double meaning.

 The central metaphor is obviously one of a funeral, where the pen is to paper as a spade is to soil. The obituary is the collective and continuing account of the writer’s introspections and realizations, which is effectively a death notice. Presented as such, there is no longer a place for complacency, indifference is driven out, and the funeral procession is in full progress. As the barren earth is dug, the reality of this writing sinks in, and finally the penitence borne of the gravity of the situation is one of bitter-sweet release.

Further Observations:

 As I look at the few poetic pieces which I’ve written here on the blog, let me make some observations:

 They are primarily a vehicle for my self-expression. Such things as beauty, art for art’s sake, cultural observation, etc. barely feature, and if they do they play a distant secondary role. The introspective nature of the pieces thus reflects my temperament, my current state, which is primarily one of melancholic self-centredness.

 They tellingly lack poetic finesse, having no nimble grace or richness of imagery. Instead they are plain and brutish, heavy and labored, downcast.

 My earlier ones have been short and blunt, tired, with little effort going in to their poetic form, instead being more of a heavy sigh of rhetorical dialogue. Recently I have put more effort into them – too much even – and they have become stifled in heavy form. Additionally, I have been trying to write depth and subtlety into them – something which can’t be seen at first glance, but which requires further consideration and investigation – and so the labored-ness is compounded.

 So my poetry is more than self-expression, but self-portrayal.

I am a child with a thick crayon,
 both sulking and seeking attention,
 finding penitence only in my impatience.

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