No More Poetry

Behind Bars

I consider myself a poet, or I did do. I have written many books of poetry but at my trial, they were all burned. My crime, I was accused and found guilty of writing poetry.

My poetry was sometimes about love, sometimes nature and sometimes out-and-out comedy, like the situation that I find myself in now, it is an absolute joke.

I wrote limericks, haiku, senryū (川柳), sedōka, sonnets and villanelle, but now they lie smoking outside the prison in the town square, but they are still here in my head, and when this idiocy is over they will be released on the world once again.

How The Hell Did This Happen?

The country was invaded and the new government decided that people were here to do what they were told, and there would be nothing outside manufacturing (mainly for the army and the new ruling party's luxury palaces), food production was also encouraged.

The arts, in any form, were deemed unnecessary, in fact, our new dictator was unable to read, and any form of written word was deemed an insult to his intelligence.

Paintings in museums were burned, as were libraries. Musicians were targeted and their instruments destroyed, there are a few in this prison.

The thing is, our art is in our heads, awaiting the overthrow of these tyrants. We will succeed.

We know there are guerilla groups who have hidden books, art and instruments in caves and cellars while they correspond with a supportive foreign power to come in and restore order here.

Life without art is empty.

People are arrested for even whistling a tune,

There are no newspapers, no news even, communication is very furtive, and everyone is worried that they will be next, but we are all living in hope that one day our words and art will return.