Another Poem by Jason Morton

Check out this new poem by my Facebook friend, Jason Morton:

Words they
Like glass
Poets Of
the tan
World bring
Brass and
Pens and
I leave
You to
-pret just
what these
words mean
I write
I am
I’m there
I am
just a
pen that
Writes words
Of angst
In trans –
And rhyme
Take what
you want
For when
I am
Old but
A child
At heart
Words heal
When the
World falls

There’s the poem, and here’s my analysis of it.

“Words they/Shatter/Like glass” because they can be hurtful and abusive…but they can also shatter illusions and liberate us from the lies of the world. “Poets Of/the tan/World” sound like those in the Third World, with tanned skin, struggling to express themselves in a world of poverty, pain, and suffering, by using “Brass and/Pens and/Obscene Dreams.” The words blow out like the brass section of an orchestra, or like the obscene sound of flatulence, since the poor live in a fetid world of filth.

The jagged nature of this writing, short lines broken up into one or two words each, gives off that feeling of shattered words falling down the page, and a shattered meaning…shattered lives. The random capitalization reinforces this awkward sense of a lack of continuity–broken apart, estranged expression. We’re free to “Inter-pret” these words any way we like, these fragmented expressions.

“I write/I am” sounds a bit like “I think, therefore I am.” Poets, artists, and the poor exist, even if the world doesn’t wish to acknowledge them. “I,” the unknown poet, “am/just a/pen that/Writes words,” that is, one sees the writing, but doesn’t know the writer. Only the end product is what’s valued, like a fetishized commodity; but the producer of the poetry remains invisible.

“Words/Of angst/In trans-/gressive/prose/And rhyme” are the “Obscene Dreams” noted above. The dreams of the poor and suffering are ‘obscene’ and ‘transgressive’ to those in power, who would rather keep the writers of those words silent and unread.

“I am/Old but/A child/At heart,” that is, we’re all as vulnerable as children when we’re old, and we all have the sweetness of a child inside us, in spite of our suffering. The therapeutic power of “Words heal,” and this is why we must keep using them “When the/World falls/apart,” like that shattered glass of abusive words. There are those in power who would have us be silent, but we mustn’t. We must keep speaking; we must keep writing our poetry.

Note the pun on “Words” and “World.” Both shatter, both fall apart…but both can heal, if words are used to help us instead of breaking us apart. For when the lies are shattered, we the poor speakers of poetry can be put back together again.

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