I do not dislike poetry, generally, I think it is a form of writing that lets you get out a thought and clarify it. This is in contrast to the series of thoughts that come with short stories or even longer fiction. Even longer poems like Oscar Wilde’s Ballad of Reading Goal nevertheless expound on emotions rather than a life, or a part of a life like fiction does.
I do enjoy poetry because It will allow you to without being so very precise, get your feelings out into the open and really let it air out for all the world to see.
Below you will find my latest poem Metnal named after the lowest and most horrific of the nine levels of hell from an Indigenous American religious mythology. I wrote this poem while thinking on a number of different things, one of which was the idea of a place in Hiroshima and Nagasaki where you could still see the shadows of people and objects, as they were when the United States dropped the World War 2 ending bombs.
I felt that this image really meant more than just the scientific reality that the atomic bombs had burned the shadows onto the ground. It really made me think about the horrible things that happen to a person in this life and how they really leave a mark on them. However, these burned in shadows really seemed to mean more than scars to me. A person can get a scar from anything by a slight brush against an improperly finished nail to a bullet through someone’s leg. However, to me it seemed like there is not much that happens in the world that burns shadows into concrete and stone buildings, so it makes it much more traumatic and lasting. Also after reading the poem, please take the time to write your opinions below in the comments section. All criticism is welcome, as long as it is based on the poetry and not an attack on my personal self. Meaning, do not just write in the comments that you think I am stupid. Really, try to tell me about the poem, the structure, the language, the use of words, the layout, everything you can think of. Did you enjoy the title? Do you have any ideas on what you would do if you had to change this poem? Really rip into it, leave no feeling spared, as long as you focus on the writing.
I’ve heard tales of a distant land
Are burnt into the
The last marker of a vile event
It can only be
Written of in
they are cliché
and yet terrible reality
His shadow is burnt into me
The last outline of who I used to be.