so…we’ve moved onto poetry in creative writing. sigh. while i have dabbled in poetry before (see the poetry link in the menu if you are interested), i’ve never had to do it with such a focus on technique…it feels the exact same way as when i started learning guitar theory and it completely messing with my perceptions of how to do things. it made things hard initially, but in time it’s helped me a lot. i can only hope the same is true of poetic theory.
long story short, here is a poem. please criticise it to the nth degree, i really would appreciate the criticism and advice.
In empty streets of every sick town,
all across the jilted nation, people
are tuned into the white noise station;
the rising catatonia, the Fear,
as it drills and peers through the front door
all lobotomy smiles and nerve gas.
Up from the gutter and high rise towers,
corruption climbs the brick walls like ivy,
when the last book, thrown out from the window
hits the floor and cracks in two, exploding,
and sends sparks in every direction.
Down shaded alleys at the red sky dusk,
where lies the blood grafitti of Ginsberg,
a kid first sees the confusion of truth,
with the low cobweb roof blown off his head,
opens his glazed grey eyes to the sunrise
and the poet screams out loud ‘it is done‘