I was recently asked if I write poetry. Normally, I answer no to this question and just avoid the embarrassment all together but this time I went digging through my external hard drive. I only remember writing a few poems in college around the ages of 19 and 20 but somehow, I had buried the memory of the other poems deep down inside my mind.
Well! Let me tell you. This is not the case. I found my “portfolio” of about sixteen poems from that time period. I had a good laugh. How much my writing has changed but also, I don’t know if I am still up to the task of penning a poem. Here are a couple of samples from my younger days.
Those ill-fated hounds;
Butchered, mangled, and bashed
by their master
He swallowed their lively flesh;
Rabid, bloodied at the mouth
Howling for chaste Artemis
To save them; she merely watches—
A bystander resting with her stags
The last whelp could be heard
But not saved
The blade is smooth and ideal
as it snuggles in his back pocket
waiting for the moment when it will
pounce willingly onto its next victim
slashing it coolly: throat, belly, etc.
Kicking the cracked limestone across
his path, his step leading into a hasty trot
and then he comes to it, left hand
shaking as he reaches for his smooth
blade snuggled in his back pocket and
then he guts it