Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours

Poem By john tiong chunghoo

yet in this downcast hour
the mornlight
beautiful twitters of birds
lost in this dungeon of
meaninglessness of life
what sinful existence
day in day out
the beauty of the outside
that clashes with the
congested inside
that plies between loneliness,
sadness, anguish, near despair
yet the half opened window
on this seventh floor of the condominium
does not invite a jump
poet killers like plath and sextons are cowards
i dont fancy their cue
idiots slapping god's hands
so tirelessly, ceaselessly polish
the artistic soul, feelings
to get the poet ready for his task,
to guide the world through his messy world
putting things in their proper place
with his tongues locked in a poet's soul
so that readers too could come out of their mess,
distill a clearer mind of their own
through the poet's verses
the poet polishes the world
with words, polishes its soul
the other word for poet is psychologist
impatient confused plath, idiotic sexton
failing their ultimate poetic test
poet killers! !

inspired by

Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours
YET, yet, ye downcast hours, I know ye also;
Weights of lead, how ye clog and cling at my ankles!
Earth to a chamber of mourning turns-I hear the o'erweening, mocking
voice,
Matter is conqueror-matter, triumphant only, continues onward.
Despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me,
The call of my nearest lover, putting forth, alarm'd, uncertain,
The Sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me,
Come tell me where I am speeding-tell me my destination.
I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,
I approach, hear, behold-the sad mouth, the look out of the eyes,
your mute inquiry,
Whither I go from the bed I recline on, come tell me:
Old age, alarm'd, uncertain-A young woman's voice, appealing to me
for comfort;
A young man's voice, Shall I not escape?
Walt Whitman

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