Thirty Days Hath September

0. Intro 🚧

My favorite poem is the one that starts “Thirty days hath September” because it actually tells you something.
— Groucho Marx

Not heeding the stark observation by Groucho Marx—the one where he opines that poems are essentially useless by way of the words, “My favorite poem is the one that starts Thirty days hath September because it actually tells you something”—we’re going to dive feet-first into the ocean of rhyme. No, prose it not over-rated; it’s not that. It’s just that verse is under-rated.

And we are going to set the record straight by demonstrating that verse is an equal partner of prose. With that—and inviting you to peek at the image coming into view now, that of a ragtag, loosely scattered gold bricks—let’s dive feet-first into the ocean of rhyme, an offering of which follows the image.

1. In Full Candor, Then, The Poem Itself 🎨

Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.
— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Ember by Ember

Ember by ember, bit by bit,
Things warmed up, the fire was lit

Seared in the pit,
The words were writ  

Bit by bit
Wit by wit  

Slowly, mitt by mitt,
The essays were knit  

Bit by bit,
Fit by fit  

Essays saved and archived, hit by hit,
Pushed to Gitcommit by commit 

Missives undelivered or intercepted, chit by chit
So who subjugated who, Brit by Brit?  

Brick upon brick, grit by grit,
The gleaming edifice was built 

The rocket was readied for takeoff, bit by bit
The literature was assembled, DIY-kit by DIY-kit 

Aha, this must be the house that Peterbilt,
Wait! No! This is the house that Akram built 

Don Quixote sure had at the windmill, tilt by tilt,
So did Milton in his own way, I suppose “Milt” by “Milt” 

So let the bits fly, Akram, you twit
Let ’em fly (like a snitch), wit by wit  

Bit by bit,
Lit by lit  

All the world’s but a stage, with men and women engaged in some bizarre skit,
Where tweets alight from the sky like bird-poop, aerial s**t by aerial s**t  

What is this thing with feathers that seems to dart about and flit?,
Builds our dreams, yet goes for the throat, slit by slit 

All the same, hit by hit,
The essays became fit  

Every single essay I ever wrote, I winged it,
Every song that arose in my heart, I singed it 

Ember unto ember, hilt unto hilt,
The embers glowed, the fire had been lit  

Sit back and watch the embers show their glow; sit now sit,
Bask in the glowing edifice that’s been rewrit; it’s been lit

Akram Ahmad (writer, blogger, software craftsman)


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