I have been writing poetry for close to 3 years. I claim that my style is purely my own. I describe my poetry as contrarian dysthymia. The genre is not recognized and I am not sure if it will ever find prominence but I call it that because I grew up a contrarian by nature and suffered dysthymia, or persistent mild depression because of my outspokenness on societal issues.
Over time as I embraced reading and started valuing critical thinking, I realized that my ability to speak out is not a social impediment; instead it’s a ‘gift’ (no religious underpinnings invoked here). I would call it “evolutionary baggage” but I know my sciency friends will want me to stick to a less philosophical description and I agree with that opinion, but more on that some other day.
I use my often ‘emotionally fragile self of the past’ to fuel my poetry. This is my attempt at remembering where I came from, in terms of a state of mind.
I started writing sonnets in the second half of 2015 and realized it was one of the most difficult art forms to perfect, which is why I enjoy doing it all the more. Before I could publish my first set of 8 sonnets I was signed by a French troupe. They wanted to use my work in their acts. 3 of my sonnets were used by them in the Festival d’Avignon last year and I cannot share those 8 sonnets with the world as I entered a contract with them. The reason I haven’t publicly published my sonnets before today (though some of my other poetry has been published in both print and online media) is because other than those 8 sets I have never written another sonnet.
I thought I should get back to doing that now because I seem to be missing my contrarian dysthymia of late. I hope you like it. Even if you don’t, please remember that I did not write this to please you.
Title: “Sonnet Olympus”
Form: Contrarian Dysthymia
Pattern: a b a b b c b c c d c d e e
Volta: What (marked in italics)
Of all the things I should say,
I say your misery warrants a prick,
If you espouse silence, you deserve flay,
Lights, camera, booze, boobs, click.
If it feels like talking to a fucking brick,
Remember that your privilege is now baloney;
Laugh out, laugh out, this is my shtick,
Procure, aim, shoot, bang, bullseye.
Yet I, wax poetic for the sake of comradery,
Hopeful bebeodan that leads to Kant’s recant;
But my proffer is imputed to hostility,
Bitch, moan, grouch, whine, lament.
What then can save you? Growing a pair of balls,
Clinging to reason as Olympus falls.