Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2009


by Jack Weller

In my crystal youth it tried to tame,
Those blue eyes which could not see,
Zealous men and tepid smiles,
Showed me its monotony,

Like a vice it grips and holds,
Your thoughts so still for two years straight,
Slowly tighter it starts to screw,
Mediocrity into the soul and fate,

For after attainment of flat perfection,
Through effort and nothing else it lingers,
The mind is blinded by such glossy print,
What did I write? Whos are these fingers?

It was so kind, it gave me choice
and faith and told me what to seek,
But when I left it's mark did smirk,
For all it taught me was technique.

Hordes of happy books advance you on,
Past time and defeated digression.
Their colours, facts and bullet points oppress,
The attempts of a redundant profession.

This teaching lays a futile seed,
For in the dark one cannot read.

Added: 29.04.2009