A Dark Tale- or the Perils of writing Poetry

It was a dark day in early April. Actually it was not so dark. And I am not sure it was in April-early or late- either. But that does not matter. This is a dark tale of soul destroying despair and it needs all the build-up it can get. I wrote down something, something, something Dawn, then a line later rhymed it with Morn. And the beginning of the end had started. The end of sanity, happiness, and a good credit score. But I did not know. How could I? I was busy writing poetry. Rhyming Way with May, Away and Gay(this was in more closeted times).

Parenting is an onerous responsibility. I know it now. But I do not really blame my poor non-rhyming parents. They could have stopped me. They did not. Too much of black coffee, astrophysics and a liking for Faiz does that to you. You miss out on responsibilities to Progeny. Responsibilities to dash the paper and pen away from the little fingers at the first sign of Night being rhymed with Might, before it plunges everyone into black ruin. Spare the iambic pentameter spoil the child.

But those were more innocent times. One had to wend ones weary way through the world unchecked and unencumbered. So I rhymed through school magazines. And did not seem to find much adult guidance regarding the horrors I was unleashing. I guess a large student to teacher ratio denies these simple life lessons to one. As do distractions in the shape of education. But what use is a degree- even a third or fourth one, if it does not reveal to you what an insufferable bore you are- always searching for the right meter.

There were signs. There always are. The neighbors dog howled incessantly every time I tried to write verse- even free verse. But I ignored it- it could be that the howls were not very specific- he did tend to howl at children- big and small, adults, cats, kites, mice, his master, the moon and on every day beginning with a T. But his howl at my poems had a darker more were-wolfish tinge. Of course I did not hear it then. I was too busy looking at sonnet schemas. The tom-cat at home hurled hairballs and chewed up poems- but I paid no attention to the feline. It ran away eventually. Ostensibly to meet other cats. But that was just an excuse. By the time I discovered sestinas, even hamsters were avoiding me. And the one tiger I met in a reserve got himself captured by poachers a little while later.

In my early twenties I discovered haikus and was seized by a dull despair. I had begun to weary of this addiction to verse- bound or free. I plunged myself into work but the lure of the villanelle (among other things) proved too strong. I wrote about emotions and passions and love and the other things that go with it.

Cataclysmic events took place in the world- there were tornados and earthquakes and terror attacks. It was as if the elements were trying to warn me. But I paid no heed. My boss left his job. As did his secretary. "More money "they whispered, but in my heart I knew it was my poems. Sort of chastened I moved to higher education. But the plaque followed. And before I knew it I was trying to massacre the Greek myths in meter.

Then the world financial system collapsed. Bear Sterns fell, then AIG and the big banks needed to beg money to keep them afloat. But it was only when Iceland went bankrupt that I began to realize the extent of my addiction. The next time the urge came on to obfuscate feeling, I desisted. I went for a long walk- then a run and wandered through a couple of Museums of Natural History. I did this for a week. Of course I ended up in Waco and had to take a Greyhound bus back to Arlington, but when I last checked the Dow is climbing again.