Author: Max Meunier

8bit synth-wielding cat who does certain things or does not* *context in content
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Listen, For I Have Kept A Fanatic Heart -by Ray Smith (Poetry Magazine Feb 1944)

Some poems seem to reflect the very essence of our being on an intimate level.  This is the poem that I most relate to.  The poet, Ray Smith, also happens to be the grandfather of my primary source of inspiration in my personal life.  My wife, Mira Meunier.  Ray was a poet who enlisted in WWII to serve as a combat medic.  He fought in several of the most noted battles, one of which was the battle of the bulge.  It’s interesting to see the marked change that took place in his poetry from the period before his deployment to the period after which he had experienced the horrors of warfare.  This transformation can be observed in the poems published by Poetry Magazine during those years found here https://www.poetryfoundation.org/search?q=ray+smith&refinement=poetry_magazine&page=2 for anyone who might be interested in reading them.  He would become a decorated soldier, having risked his life on numerous occasions to save his comrades. Speaking of comrades, in a vulgar display of cruel irony, he was blacklisted for being a communist after having served his country.  He spent the remainder of his years serving as the library director at several universities and served twice as poet laureate for the state of Minnesota.

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How Can I

with time erodes the roads of hope
as seconds pass without distinction
wedged between the hourglass
in retrospect, a stranger’s fiction
e’er beholden to the past
shackled by fear’s ersatz depictions
diligently deconstructed
prone to dubious perceptions
doled out in fervid procession
sold out to our indiscretion
futures nigh belie the burdens
of reflective introspection
corporate chains restrain our choices
subjugated minds and voices
commandeering our convictions
volunteering our volition
fostering the hour’s dissension
lost inside our own dimensions
drifting states of lone diremptions
kissed by fate’s unknown afflictions
wistful days of rumination
stripped of our only salvation
dripping death with indignation
listless breaths of consternation
consciously resigned enslavement
viciously maligned by deviants
clamoring to hide misconduct
how can i but not give a fuck

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In Your Absence – Max Meunier

A recent poem of mine from Sudden Denouement that I forgot to reblog here.

Max Meunier's avatarSudden Denouement Collective

how do i go on
now that this bitter husk
no longer bears your burden

now that shattered skies
no longer paint your visage white

left with naught
but false impressions
framed upon your pillow

and all the stars have fallen
from the absence of your eyes

Max Meunier (Max Meunier Poetry)

[Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations.  I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.]

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Message to Fellow WP Writers

Thank you for continually inspiring me to express the truth of my experience.  Your words are the force that facilitates freedom.  Be it through your beautiful and profound prose and poetry or your kind words of support and encouragement.  The fact that I am able to express myself because of these things is monumental in its significance to me on a personal level.  Life has been particularly trying as of late, and your presence has helped me in more ways than I am able to express.  I feel honored to be a humble member of this community of tortured souls transmuting personal experience into poetic expression.  I appreciate everything you do for myself, and for one another.

sincerely,

max

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Solitude’s Descent

the struggle
to release my fears
from shackled shrills
of obscene silence

pulling further
down with every second

thought since spent

vile undertows
that know me well

spell out this hell
in heavy throes
below
where phantom prose
commiserates lament

each word
wafts ever wayward
in dissociative dimensions

obscured by the illusion
borne of urgency
forgone

enthralled by conscious calls
of a conspicuous collusion

that subdivide the lies
my conscience cries
to stay afloat

that i require
the fundamental sating
trapped in spurned epistles

e’er belies
what blissfully denies
my ignorance

which writhes on
muted shores
secluded

hopelessly exiled

as i succumb
to numbness

of my solitude’s descent

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Elaboration

spoken word is often heard to herd our thoughts en masse
in subdivisions subject to succinctly shorn abash
with tethered tongue endeavor we to eloquently air
ineffable expressions deftly doled out so to spare
gauging our engagements with gratuitous refrain
allowing temporal allotment basis to abstain
from artfully articulating free to affectate
inflection efflorescing to reflect what best relates
when clearly this impairs our proper prepense to impart
by misappropriating that which would impel our heart
predictably afflicting our intended utterance
thus rendering our voice as ineffective abeyance
which leaves us floundering to falter ineffectual
destined to descend depths of diligence misconstrued
should we decree our thoughts conveyed to show evincible
we could forgo distraught dismay deemed reprehensible
for implications minced from assertation’s open end
are subject to inferences of infinite amend
thus, i submit commitment to the full breadth of nuance
in all asseveration to disseminate ensconce
for time must be considered far beyond the imminent
lest we spend all eternity on spurned expedience
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social media rant revisited

depression sets in

cyclical perpetuity prying
clawing at the prefrontal cortex

altruistic assertions abundantly articulated
aimlessly amid atmospheres of apathetic arrogance

the pittance of positive people
professing palpable parable
is repeatedly passed over
spurned, and disparaged
for the perverted purpose of pandering
to the plight of pathetically puerile opponents
to placate their pathological penchant
for proliferated pandemonium

the spirit of selflessness
and subsequent sanctuary is subjugated
by solipsistic sentiments
that seem to spread
like pestilence plaguing the soporific populace

seeking to appease
the silent sect of surrogate shamers
tiptoeing through the treacherous tumult
presaging tales of omnipresent fear
with foreboding and pale trepidation

all too typically trivialized
by tiresome talk of intolerant tripe
tailored to tantalize stolid thinkers

in triumphant tantrums of truant intellect
inflecting in facetious affectation
fostering false intent so toilsome

tempting my intrinsic inclination
to defect and deactivate
with the hope of abating this state of inundated hatred
bred into my head by the hordes

of men faceless whose faith
one can only surmise to be heedless

so, needless to say my dismay
is with relevant reason
enough to release this lost soul
into sempiternal egress

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Answer: Ego

why must our presence

present as pendulous peril

perpetually passing

between plausible purpose

and predisposed plight

prolonging pandemonium

to placate pedestrian pedantry

perpetrated by apathetic progenitors

to please their pathetically primitive

predilection for perpetuant personal prospect

through perfunctory procreation

parsimoniously placing province

and perdurable pain

on the passively plucked

personifications

of their phantom permanence?

 

 

 

[image credit: Vittorio Zecchin]

 

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Let’s Talk About Kissing (I)

Please take a moment to peer into the beauty of Rob’s soul. You’ll be glad you did.

RecoveryWise's avatarRecoveryWise

Rudy Clarkletstalkkissing on justruminating men's blog had it right when he wrote “The Shoop Shoop Song (It’s In His Kiss).”  You want to know if a man really loves you?

“If you want to know if he loves you so
It’s in his kiss
That’s where it is”

I truly believe that.  More on this in Part II of this.  I don’t know when it happened in my last horrendous relationship, but it most certainly was almost 2 years ago:  I remember one day when we were about to get at it, me thinking about Cher’s version of that song:  “can she tell it’s not in my kiss anymore?” 

The anguish and pain she had besieged me with for so long had finally done it:  my kiss was dead for her.  I was going through the motions and that–as I’m sure many of you can relate to– is the kiss of death to any…

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Ember

love looms
amid the earthen shrine
in contrast with truth
pressing onto parchment
muted musings left lingering
for glancing eyes
that gaze in contempt
aghast at the ongoing display
of decadent debauchery
never have they known
such indiscretion
yet none can speak
for what is known

the radiance
disarming
its cadence grows stronger
echoing into the abyss of anguish
from one
to other
bearing no consequence
of relevant toll
rolling like a snow-bound stone
enjoyed by the sun

all of these ancestral affectations
airs of artifice
agonizing over every breath
spilled out onto the landscape
like leaves leading to disarray
in lost portrayal

sweet strands of vermilion
lick like flames
framing such fragile alabaster allure
alone and aloft
soft tones of humility
exuding from hearth
set upon this heart
rekindled by kindred coalescence
windswept into one regret
and set to the serenity
of solitude’s song

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