Empty Promises
When the light dances on the sidewalk, threatening to go out on you like all the others, all the things you said because you liked the sound of your own voice more than what your words meant come Rushing back to you, like cars rolling too fast on the road, and the sound of screeching, which claws its way into your head, your brain- damn, you swear
if someone looked they’d see wind-up monkeys clashing tambourines in there- and
you want to scream and scream out at them, it’s too loud, everything’s going too fast, I’m dizzy, my head hurts, no, I’m not complaining, I’m just speaking what I’m feeling, and I
promise, those two are different—yes, day, after, day, they gave me empty promises, and every time, I laughed only as I could laugh; turns out they doled it out to everyone, like candy or something worse that they don’t usually give to children.
When the light dances on the sidewalk, threatening to go out on you like all the others, all the things you said because you liked the sound of your own voice more than what your words meant come Rushing back to you, like cars rolling too fast on the road, and the sound of screeching, which claws its way into your head, your brain- damn, you swear
if someone looked they’d see wind-up monkeys clashing tambourines in there- and
you want to scream and scream out at them, it’s too loud, everything’s going too fast, I’m dizzy, my head hurts, no, I’m not complaining, I’m just speaking what I’m feeling, and I
promise, those two are different—yes, day, after, day, they gave me empty promises, and every time, I laughed only as I could laugh; turns out they doled it out to everyone, like candy or something worse that they don’t usually give to children.
Got to attend a workshop with dear Mr. C as a result of this poem. Let's just say it was... an experience.
Letter to Mr. Collins (referred to by my English class as Billy Collins or “Collins.” Poets never seem to get salutations.) by Garam Noh
(Ahem)
Dear kind Sir:
I hope you won’t be offended
That the “Visits Deerfield Academy” block
On your life timeline
Is just as large as the
“Two terms as the US Poet Laureate” block.
But then again,
There’s a reason why we call it
the Deerfield Scroll.
Dear successful Sir:
You are the Seinfeld of poetry,
If the comparison doesn’t seem
below you.
But when I write a poem
All I can wonder is
where do the line breaks go
and will someone read into it too much
If I press the Enter button
Just
‘Cause I feel like it?
Dear subtle sir:
You say we should not
Tie a poem to a chair and beat it for answers
Yet when we point out the metaphors in your lines
As I’m sure you would hope for
I think- just maybe- we’re tightening
Our grip on the rope.
Because for me
A simile is like a breath of stale air
A metaphor is a dictionary with the “like” and “as” ripped out
This is an end-stopped line,
and the red and green squigglies tell me e. e. cummings is wrong.
If I wrote a poem to my nonhuman something it’s an apostrophe
I am too lazy to remember Shakespeare nor iambic pentameter
But busy worrying I’m trying too hard to be clever
And honestly, rhyming just seems to sever
These lines at an awkward place to cut
And now with medieval verb-noun placing the door of poetry I shut.
(Ahem)
Dear kind Sir:
I hope you won’t be offended
That the “Visits Deerfield Academy” block
On your life timeline
Is just as large as the
“Two terms as the US Poet Laureate” block.
But then again,
There’s a reason why we call it
the Deerfield Scroll.
Dear successful Sir:
You are the Seinfeld of poetry,
If the comparison doesn’t seem
below you.
But when I write a poem
All I can wonder is
where do the line breaks go
and will someone read into it too much
If I press the Enter button
Just
‘Cause I feel like it?
Dear subtle sir:
You say we should not
Tie a poem to a chair and beat it for answers
Yet when we point out the metaphors in your lines
As I’m sure you would hope for
I think- just maybe- we’re tightening
Our grip on the rope.
Because for me
A simile is like a breath of stale air
A metaphor is a dictionary with the “like” and “as” ripped out
This is an end-stopped line,
and the red and green squigglies tell me e. e. cummings is wrong.
If I wrote a poem to my nonhuman something it’s an apostrophe
I am too lazy to remember Shakespeare nor iambic pentameter
But busy worrying I’m trying too hard to be clever
And honestly, rhyming just seems to sever
These lines at an awkward place to cut
And now with medieval verb-noun placing the door of poetry I shut.
edge
by Garam Noh
Seeing the world in blue
Not as a metaphor for melancholy
But as my favorite color
I walk along the edge of the road
Putting my foot on and off the curb.
I think of how this might be the end
How those cars might disappear as
soon as they go out of my sight
that maybe if I kept on walking
I could go on and on into the same landscape,
folding onto itself
never reaching a certain nameless town in Jersey.
This curb is where the pretentions end, the end where
we, we who secretly harbor the belief we are chosen ones
just because some people threw darts at a board with our faces
with the word “admissions” on it
can keep our delusions safe and sound
because at least when you can see the whole ladder,
you can be happy with the rung you’re on.
by Garam Noh
Seeing the world in blue
Not as a metaphor for melancholy
But as my favorite color
I walk along the edge of the road
Putting my foot on and off the curb.
I think of how this might be the end
How those cars might disappear as
soon as they go out of my sight
that maybe if I kept on walking
I could go on and on into the same landscape,
folding onto itself
never reaching a certain nameless town in Jersey.
This curb is where the pretentions end, the end where
we, we who secretly harbor the belief we are chosen ones
just because some people threw darts at a board with our faces
with the word “admissions” on it
can keep our delusions safe and sound
because at least when you can see the whole ladder,
you can be happy with the rung you’re on.