[Tyr Zalo Hawk]: 712.Essays.Reflecting on Poetry

2008 was the name of the year, and our story begins with a man named Tyr. He lived in the dorms, cared not for social norms, and for poetry had quite the ear. Though, he sometimes dressed with beret or with black, and though skinny, white, and witty, a bongo drum he did quite lack, and he came not from the city. He was, as you have seen, a child with quite a cause for writing things; just some weird kid. At college, Tyr thought poetry would be an exciting class to take, so he did. And even with a voice as loud as his, more oft than not in the corner he hid. This is the story of how that class changed his poetry. For better or worse, we’ll have to see.
Through odes, and sonnets, and manifestos, our weary hero did trudge. Learning the secrets of the trade of the art, and trying not to hold a grudge when those classmates of his, whom he had come to like, thought his poetry needed some change. Still he took it in style, with a laugh and a smile, and tried his best to rearrange his poems, and techniques, so that others could see that he wasn’t just the same old same; that he could write a poem about death, without meter or rhyme, or spill out a tune for a dame. All throughout the year, his work did progress, inspired by the poems of his peers, he learned metaphor games, and that it took more than brains, to decipher how a poem first appears.
He’s learned that longer poems don’t mean that you’ll be bored. He’s learned that taking criticism, often leads to a reward. He’s created poems without rhythm, that seem cut, as if by sword, and he’s even made a poem or two that deal with God, our Lord. Diversity has been the key, from the very, very start. And though the class has taught him much, it has not changed his heart.
Yes, it must be said, that he’s still got rhyming in his head. And he’d rather be left for dead, than write a prose poem instead of an actual poem, with lines, with breaks, with feelings heavier than simple heartaches. And though he knows line breaks, do not a poem make, he knows that he’s got what it takes to make a poem with anger, with sadness, with grief, without abstract things like hope and belief. That immortal terms with no form, with no shape, can easily allow your simple meaning to escape.
Although he’s been given new tools to abuse, and plenty of things over which he can muse, our young hero Tyr, who was always quite queer (in the odd way), has come with some news. This poetry class has done wonders for him, and though it’s over now, dead and done, he feels more at home writing plenty more things, like lyrical essays for one. Thanks for your time.

© Tyr Hawkaluk (2004-Present)