Klingon Poetry

A group of enthusiasts got together to write a compendium of Klingon Poetry. The thing is, I actually think it's pretty good. Sure, it is cheesy, but it's not a winking cheese. It's a good cheese, and earnest cheese, the kind of cheese only a loving fan can make. This also has the advantage of being readable.

Here's an except. This poem is called My Beloved and is written by K'Chara (whoever that is).

My blood runs cold
As I look upon the face
Of my beloved
His eyes are empty
Dead
I hold his eyes open
And scream
My rage
My anger
My fear
My heart breaks
I howl
I warn the others
A mighty warrior is coming
I look at the battle with new eyes
My blood boils
And now
The battle truly begins.

Visions of Victory (PDF)

Do I think this stands on its own? Actually, I do. If nothing else, it is entertaining and keeps my eyes on the page. That is all I ask, really.

Sold Out

How cool is it that half way around the globe someone is articulating my own thoughts and putting them down to paper? In China, of all places. Please, do not take this to mean that I am surprised a Chinese man may feel what I feel. Rather, it is to say that sometimes thoughts that I think to be my own still may be echoed by another — across distant places.

Sometime, Mo Mo wrote a poem that I am sure will find its way into your skull, digging its way into your grey matter until you finally say, "Man, that is vivid." This is that poem.

SOLD OUT

I sell dreams, cheap
following my inclinations like a dog who sold his master
I sell epochs,
my body crosshatched with scars
I sell time, diarrhetic
penniless as fresh air
I sell country, motherland disappears
I sell space, earth vanishes
I hold the universe in my hand and write you a love letter

I sell holidays, together with loneliness
in ignorance of the world
I sell everything:
life, breath, death
But tonight you must listen
I'm going to kiss you seriously
and turn over like a sunken boat
You're the ocean
the only thing I have left

Avant-Garde Chinese Poetry 1982-1992: 6 Poets

Now, as a single 20-something man who lives on his own, works at night, and is only surviving through the skin of his teeth: Wow! Yeah, sometime along, I sold out. I never intended it to be this way. I was so punk rock. But in this dog-eat-dog world, I sold out. I sold my time, I sold my eyeballs, I sold my peace of mind.

I guess my only recourse is the "ocean". Some sort of escape to which nothing can touch me. Something overcoming, I guess, but also soothing.

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Hilariously Atrocious Poetry

There are good poems. There are bad poems. Then there are poems that are so awful they make you want to perform a self-lobotomy. Hence, it is time for you to bring out your scalpel because I got one example of such poetry:

Futility

I grab my head between my hands,
And bash it against the wall,
In truth it feels I've been here,
For longer than I recall,
You parasites want some sweat and blood,
I'm rising to the call,
I wish I feared the end result,
While not surprised at all

One might think this poem is an anomaly. Yet one such person has created his own collection of weird poems. One would think the titles speak for themselves. Fetalloid Musicution, Cute Enough To Be Funny Watching It Die, and Beaming Into the Gullet of Nake are all the many poems whose titles simply don't do them justice. All told it is hilarious because you don't want to cry.

And this is why, in the end, you must know about them.