Writers As Poets

In my "Finding Your Fiction" workshops, I usually start a discussion about poetry. Occasionally, someone will say they don’t like poetry and don’t have any desire to read or write poems. Technically, fiction writers (or writers of any sort) do not have to study or write poetry. However, I sometimes assign the task to workshop individuals who tend to clunk along in their prose and use many useless words. I point out that writing poetry forces you to think about every word, every phrase and about rhythm and voice -- important to any writer.

As I have stated before on hubpages, I do not consider myself, at least primarily, a poet (although I have published a fair amount of it and been asked to give readings). However, writing poetry is extremely helpful to any writer, and I encourage all writers to give it a try (see Stephen Fry’s book).

So while I have been focussed on my prose (please search Jeffrey Penn May for what is currently available, especially on Amazon), I still feel compelled to occasionally write a poem. In deference to all you true poets here on hubpages, I offer my newest effort.

PS: As you hub-poets know, formatting for line indents seems impossible. I've given up for now on this one but bemoan the loss of such an important device.

Young man full of it,
at night
After a few,
that was me.

Did I drink...
too much?
Could I see...
what was coming?

I cycle the highway
Salvation Army clothes
Tattering in the wind
bent wheels clacking
Loose spokes, rusted fender,
what happened to my Lycra shorts?

I work at Wal-Mart
my Phd in Philosophy
I shoeshine on Wall Street
loose teeth still crooked,
My middle class smile.

"Hey," I say, to the pinstriped
billionaire,
"Your diamond is bigger
than my tumor!"

He shifts in his seat.
(Not my shoe-stand anyway.)
Next time, I bring ropes,
tie ‘em in.

Poor bastards with their slick suits and glitzy cars
can’t see what I see.
I calculate equations!
simple math that I do not understand.
Oh, I wish I were a financier!

I clatter to my tent
pitched at the bottom
Of the embankment
beneath the blinking sign:
Citizen’s Bank.

Clean ammonia air I breath
listening to insects
Killing mosquitoes on my arm
I smear "their" blood.

If I wake,
I will hatch a plan
To revive my assets
Just think... think...

Oh heavenly God, please! please!
In my next life,
Let me be
A financier!