Old Bad Poetry

“Surprise, it isn’t a short story”

I kind of hate poetry, for many reasons that have everything to do with the form of expression that is poetry, but that’s a story for another day. As an author, I try to respect poetry for what it is; a distillation of communication into its rawest form. Poetry is, if you ask me, trying to express something in as few words as possible or in a way as to be musical to the ear. But I don’t study poetry, so I can’t talk much about it.

I don’t like poetry that seems to attempt to be as obscure as possible, or just tries to be wordy and flowery and verbose for the point of being a poem. I’m thinking mostly of Walt Whitman. I do not like his poems. I don’t like a lot of poems, or most poetry in general, but his are my least favorite, I think. I’d rather read poetry that tells a story, like the works of Robert Frost or Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

But this is all neither here nor there because I’m going to share poems that I wrote anyway, since it’s another week of buffer room that I can make for myself. I wrote these for freshman year English class in high school, with the exception of “Turn and Turn,” which I wrote at one of the NIU camps I attended. I don’t like poems. I don’t like my poems. The old ones especially feel pretentious and poorly-written now. But I can’t deny that I did have fun writing them, so I guess there’s that.

“The Dusky Mountains,” by Andy Sima (2013)

In the mountains of the East,

I came to a special place, where

A house beyond the reach of time

Greeted me with lonely eyes.

In those twilit woods I found

A place to call my own.

But little did I seem to know

The trouble I had grown.

For Dusky mountains are no place

To try to live and thrive,

For separation from the world

Might be my last stand.

 

I came here seeking to be alone

And that I found in great abundance.

But it was too much as I found

There was no way back from where I came.

These Dusky Mountains have a hold on me

Like none I’ve ever met,

A place out of time and space.

Beautiful yet terrible

More so when the sun has set.

But I have only concluded that

I was not made for this empty world

And neither was this empty house.

 

In the cold winters of this place,

The world can be quite empty.

And it is emptier still,

With no fire in the hearth,

Or bird on the sill.

With no one to call my name

While the snow drifts build higher

And no one to bring me joy

While the blinding snow grows brighter.

Oh, these Dusky Mountains

Know no mercy for the weary traveler

And he who seeks but rest.

 

Dusk upon these mountain sides

Is the saddest view I will ever take

As the sun gives its dying gasp

Before the winter takes its hold.

And as the snows falls faster

And the winds blow stronger,

I have no thought but this.

Why did I come to this lonely land?

How did I become so trapped?

And where are the places I was promised?

“A Game of Wits and War,” by Andy Sima (2013)

On a plane to Pakistan,

Two soldiers played a game.

One of them was an older man,

The other just a boy.

 

The older man led the charge

With a pawn to B4.

The new recruit then took his turn

With a knight out on the board.

 

The game continued for quite a while

Going much the same.

Then the young man tried his hand

To take the geezer’s queen.

 

In a single move, the old man chose

To defend just what he needed.

The queen did stand, not a blade in hand

While a rook stood undefeated.

 

The young man cussed underneath his breath

And the old man puffed a laugh.

There was no move to take the queen

Without the young man losing his own.

 

But in a sudden fury, the young man pounced

The old man’s queen went down.

But it still wasn’t long before the old man crowned

Himself on a new land’s throne.

 

“Checkmate!” he cried, moving the final piece,

And the other king did fall.

So the young man looked on in surprise

At what his hasty move had caused.

 

“There’s a time and place for everything,”

Said the old man to the son.

“But brazen moves have got no spot

In a game made of wits and will.”

 

“I don’t agree with what you say to me,”

The young gun said as retort.

“Rash movements are what keep us safe

In a game of power and war.”

 

The old man’s eyes grew cloudy

As he thought of some people back home.

And he wished that they knew the difference

Of a game of wits and war.

 

But he only sighed and said nothing more

And his thoughts went to other places;

As the plane prepared to touch the ground

In a land with unknown faces.

“The Cave,” by Andy Sima (2013)

A dungeon, a hole, a deep-down chasm.

A tunnel straight to Hell.

That’s the place where I find myself;

In a world where I hear the bells.

 

The Cave!  The Cave!

What horrors await me here?

Torments to break one’s sanity

Terrors built out of fear.

 

It was a while ago, when there was still snow

And I hadn’t yet lost my way.

But all travelers fear that their map is wrong

And the mind will have its own say.

 

There was a time when myths were fake

And I didn’t think they were real.

But I do not know what to think anymore.

Or if I can still think and feel.

 

The Cave!  The Cave!

What monsters await me here?

A world built of imagination

A place where I disappear.

 

It was the eve of May in the northern land

When everything went sour.

It was as if the ground suddenly opened up;

I had no time to leave a dower.

 

Beneath the snow the world did rumble

And everything cascaded

Down and down into the abyss

And it felt like hours before it all faded.

 

The Cave!  The Cave!

What nightmares await me here?

Somewhere reality does breaks down

Somewhere outside our sphere.

 

There is no way out, and no way in

Just the chasm’s closed mouth

And a tunnel that only gets darker

As it heads down to the south.

 

It’s not been that long since the awful day

When everything was lost.

But it might be days, it might be years

Since my whole world was tossed.

 

The Cave!  The Cave!

What memories await me here?

Every mistake I’ve ever made

And every greatest fear.

“Lightning,” by Andy Sima (2013)

“Turn and Turn,” by Andy Sima (2015)

Far up in the ice and cold,

Atop a mountain gild in gold,

Sits a man who knows the way to riches unbound and great.

 

Although he’ll tell you all he knows,

He cannot often break the show,

For the circle is unshattered and the chain unbroken still.

 

Back down the hill you make your way

Passing through rot and decay

This season not been kind to Nature’s works and joys.

 

Returning to your blissful sleep

Through the silent village, softly creep.

Until even leaves could not hear your voice or sighs.

 

This silent village, rise and shine

Unto your works both break and pine

For once upon forgotten eras, we were not as we are.

 

A backwards world return through time

And into you do you hear this rhyme

And know that it has not been so, like it seems to be right now.

 

The years turn slowly, round and round

This ghastly circle’s brakes unfound

Or perhaps it is not all as it seems, hopes to be and dreams to lie.

 

You might not return home one day

Since you could not find the way

For the future uncertain gently rests on haunches made of time.

 

It will move gently, turn and turn,

For a past long gone we yearn

But return once more to a mountains steeped in dreams.

 

Once again, the old man sneaks

Back into his cave and creaks

Falling for his bones, another year has passed.