As Lauren has been saying, April is National Poetry Month. I, a self-proclaimed poet of arguable calibre, have so far been silent on this issue, except for contributing a limerick about rectum bleaching.
I can’t stay silent forever, though, because there happens to be one poet who stands out above all the rest in my mind. The so-called bastard son of e.e. cummings, Mike Kadela is a semi-local poet of my acquaintance who has gone far in the Slam Poetry world. His prose is like honey. Here’s a somewhat exclusive poem (which I hope I don’t get in trouble for posting).
The Argo sleeps in rot beneath her youth
In shallow waters silent as the moss
And barnacles which tritely claim her flesh.
I dream beneath her, calling forth our quest –
I was not wrong to seek what I had sought;
She was not wrong to carry me the seas.
The vengeance of a thousand wrongs will find
A thousand means to peace amiss. The mist,
It is not lifting when the morning shakes
The night to sleep, or rather it remains
Concealing sweetly all our accidents
Of pride and secret shame from memory.
The gilded wish recalls itself before
Regret, anoints his feet with reasons why.
Meanwhile, the Argo sleeps in rot beneath.
That I should end my days with her is just.
Amid our moss and mist and rusted suns.
Decay survives to kill what’s left, and yet
I dream as great a dream as might be dreamt
And have no shame for having wholly loved.