Chatter Chief of Staff Application 1331 after William Shakespeare, Hamlet's Soliloquy
To verse, or role reverse, that's in the question,
when writer's block may cause some indigestion,
[with contests tougher then the going's rougher]
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the strings and sorrows of outrageous scribblers,
the binges of obsessional dribblers,
the noisy cutters' red, black, unread bubbles:
or to take arms against such teething troubles
and by opposing, end them? Still keep one's cool,
guide, bona fide, and gladly suffer fools?
There's surely something wrong in A.P. rules
when talent's topsy-turvy turned by ghouls,
ability's terms of reference unsustained.
Here trophy credibility must be regained.
For here are pressing claims and urgent needs,
though many try, scarce one percent succeeds,
and one percent of these may save their soul
as contest pressures take their toll
of high ideals, oft leaving empty shell
and little else as epitaph, ah well!
Fame, fickle, tithes her victims. Writers' knell
tolls far more frequently than curtain bell.
Thus those who would their sacred dream preserve,
who from rhyme's chiming path would never swerve,
must make much sacrifice. To serve, observe,
the scene, and by to serve we mean to fend
[or else to disillusion most descend]
the heartburn and the thousand natural shocks
rejection's heir to when rejection knocks.
Are value judgements devoutly to be wished
when versatility by contest rigging's dished?
Our scribes just fate deserve. To serve, observe
the entry they reserve too often stands
ignored, spinsterlike longing for unknown hands,
the shining silver, gold, bronze thus reject
the restless queue, as order ready-pecked,
full of sound and fury points a clue
shows some exchange their trophies. Much ado
'bout nothing scribblers screeding sticky caps
with spelling errors knitting self-writ traps.
To write, page lighting wait. Oh what a weight,
especially where some poetry postdate!
A.P. needs change so fairly dreams may come
when shuffled off the uniform, brain numb,
to often dumb, eraser rubs. Where's the respect?
Aspirant writers though they introspect
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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