So I’m writing a book, as I mentioned briefly in my last post. I’m very hesitant to share things from that on here. Partly it’s because not even the first draft is finished, and I want people to actually want to read it. Also I hope to eventually someday publish it, and I don’t want it to already be online for free. Greedy? Maybe. Stingy? Yes. But overall I think it’s practical. I’ll make you a deal though. If for some reason I can’t get it published, I’ll send a digital copy to anyone who wants it. Fair? I don’t care.
On that rhyme, let’s get to the real reason you’re here. Last night I wrote a scene in my book where the protagonist discovers an illegal poetry slam performed by aliens in Hell. I was going to assure you something about it all making sense in the larger context of the story, but that’s actually a perfect description of what I’m going for here. I decided to share the actual poems with you today. There aren’t many of them, and I’m not a great poet, but I hope you enjoy them all the same.
Like this fella!
*A note on the alien races: The alien names are not what they call themselves. They are names the protagonist assigns them based on one single character trait. For example, ewoks are short and furry, but they’re much more akin to werewolves than teddy bears.
About ten people all stood in a group, so it was impossible from outside to tell who was talking. It was a very diverse group, with ewoks, a large lady hobbit, one morlock, a couple of the blue-skinned buddhists, and even one angel. It only excluded humans. Morty, like everyone else outside of Earth, was a little racist. At the moment a deep voice was speaking in low hum. It sounded like a giant bumblebee.
At the end of the day I struggle home under my own power
Artificial wings can’t lift the air, but they lift my body
I tower over the waves, I am master of the domain
If I had to fall I’d fall with style, but you know this because here I am.
The deep voice stopped. It was replaced by a quiet humming from the other participants, continuing in the same rhythm as the poem for a single minute before cutting off abruptly. As soon it stopped another voice sprang out of the crowd, this one just as deep but with a staccato quality.
Wings are only as good as the mud on their folds
Tracing around through the wrinkles of the swarm
The swarm is everything. All for the glory of swarm.
But then what purpose do prisons serve when all is the swarm?
What purpose is exile if it doesn’t serve?
What purpose is life if not to live?
The swarm rejected us, but we are not gone.
We are the swarm, we are our own. We are the future, they are the present.
If you wanted to cut us down, you’ll need a bigger serpent.
Again the low hum sprang up as soon as the voice ended, this time matching the staccato of the speaker. Another poet began, but this time the humming continued, changing to match the speaker’s own alto voice.
The prophets say at the end times the dragon will rise in the stars
The prophets declare the coming of doom
The prophets betray the Goed for their own pleasure
The prophets lie for their Cad,
In the end they shall watch us
In the end we will eat the red
Our end is soon. Our end is soon.
All sound from the group stopped. They began departing one by one, making as if they were just at a casual meeting of friends.