am i any more
than a handful of remorse
a fistful of anger
and palm raised skyward of regret


Living with volatility is not the spouse you always imagined.
What many peoples idea of being with a poet is like, has been stereotyped into oblivion, but in self fulfilling prophecy, every Tom, Dick and Harriet, has assumed the role of madness at the mic, darkness through the lens, or blood splutterer at the paper mill, oh…. and the broken ones, I can’t forget the broken hearted love fools, constantly telling the world how they could never love again. Meh!

Still, whether an act, or sincere volatility, one has to ask if they really signed up for such disarray. Either way, there is something wrong with the person even if they’re acting the part out for popularity.
Whether a show for fulfilling the role or a living up to pop standards of trending themes or legitimate mental abstinence, it doesn’t snugly fit into our minds, because we’ve been lambasted with caricatures of poets for centuries.

Take Rumi, my beloved Jalal Ul Din Al Rumi (bet many of you didn’t know his first name). The utter master of divinely inspired poetry.

The mass of readership, of hashtaggers, of meme makers and of ‘life coaches’ (please someone show me what uni degree I have to take to get qualified) would most likely be mortified to know, he was a Muslim. Not just any old run of the mill Muslim but a theologian of the highest order. (ten points to those of you that can tell me of what disciplines he was a master of)
That means, he’d look like the typical stereotype of media propagated imagery. Gowns, beards, turban, brown skin, and speaking a language that sounded like you needed to warn the air hostess before your plane takes off.

Shock horror, not your beloved quotable Rumi who fills your hearts with self reflection, only long enough to last for the rising likes on your latest social media post. Really? You mean he doesn’t look like a love struck Leonardo Di Caprio? (those who’ve heard, know what that’s about)

Where’s your stereotype now?

So, I’m sorry, but when people say Shakespeare, Blake, Wordsworth etc, the imagery that comes to my mind are just people who have whether by natural disposition or repetition of habit merely learned the art of piecing together words, mastered prose but people who get annoyed when they are distracted away from a conjuring, people who are volatile, angry, depressed, fragile and at the same time, robust, rugged, hardened.

Don’t assume them to be hopelessly romantic, or utterly bent of soul, drunkards in a tavern longing for loss, or bathing in a sea of spring blossoms. Sometimes they’re just pieces of shit, who hate themselves, know their lot, know how unliveable they are to be with and quietly go about their relationships with loyalty as an expression of their love that they cannot manifest through any other way because all those roads have been uprooted for whatever reason.

The poet caricature is evolving, as the mic, as performance poetry, as slams and spoken word takes over. The real ones, you can feel in your bones, they still exist but fuck me, there are so many of you that are mic bitches, that are media whores, and social panderists, panting, wagging tail and painting a picture of what you’re not.

Out of all things you could be,
you decided to fake a character in poetry?

To build a personality, decided to jump on trends,
and in the sea of conformity blend?

You decided your mend of semblance,
is a spoken word event attendance?

That a sentence construction,
is what appeases your attention?

And then you disappear,
when popularity shifts,
when your mind is adrift,
when you have to pay rent,
by taking another shift,
in that menial job,
oh you poetry snob,
and you realise that,
you’re not exactly that literary gift.


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