Writer Feature

So this ‘Weekly Writer Feature’ has become slightly less than weekly, which is mainly down to my own lack of time due to university preparations, so I’m incredibly sorry for the delay in getting this post up.

With the freedom to post whatever you want on the internet, you can find all sorts of writing squirreled away in the background. Unfortunately, and this must be acknowledged, a lot of writing on the web is not good and it’s often lacking in emotion or structure.

This week’s writer is another Deviant Artist, Mousen-Heath, who’s poem ‘Dear Aphrodite’ plays attention to the modern perception of art as well as being a fantastic piece of writing in itself.

‘Dear Aphrodite’

I do not go looking for
amateur dramatics
in poetry

tireless love stories
in languid, sweltering heat
do not interest me
(if there should ever come
a time where I am
anything other than
self sufficent
let me be hit by a passing bus)

I have never been in love

(which is all very well
because I’m fifteen
and at this age
it’s all a much of a muchness and
really, the way you
all go on about it
silly, twitterpated, gossipy birds
I’d rather die a virgin
than end up like you)

Debonaire elegances
of dapper men
that have fallen from
Jane Austen’s pages,
Regency’s finest folk

(Perhaps that’s what you see,
silly birds, your lover
is thin and spotty
with a single digit IQ)

Corsets pulled tight
and crinolines abandoned
sultry looks from beneath
heavy lashes
with morello cherry lips
all curves and pearls and lace

(Except you’ve ended up with
a simpering, insipid swine
with the personality
of a toilet brush)

If I write about twisted sheets
cheap motels and icy dawns
does it make me a poet?

(Can’t there be a bit of class involved?
I don’t like this talk of cheap motels
it sounds too American)

Please, Aphrodite
You can’t get too many prayers
after the temples fell to dust,
Let love never blind me
let me be hit by a passing bus

I picked this poem because of the way in which it reads. It is wonderfully funny in places, making me laugh out loud at the bluntness of “let me be hit by a passing bus” and creating the image of someone who simply despises the overtly romantic.

It also picks out beautifully, the way in which poetry can be subverted by those writing about situations and emotions that cannot really perceive. Poetry should be written to convey all emotion, not simply to describe torrid love scenes, or passionate encounters.

Throughout the poem there is a strong sense of individuality and the use of Aphrodite in the last stanza crates a wonderful powerful female stance. Under the guise of sycophantic love it is often forgotten to power once associated with Greek Gods,  and the temple turning to dust paints the picture of true love dying.

For a poet whose claim lies within shunning the somewhat modern perception of love, Mousen-Heath defends it fiercely.

The purity of Aphrodite’s temple contrasted with the rest of the poem leaves a significant divide, and more so than abandoning love altogether, I at least, am left with the impression that true love still exists, just faded and hidden in the ruins of ancient temples.

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