Club Amoeba

A poem about a mysterious club that appears for the less fortunate. Drinks when you need them, a friend to lend a shoulder, and music to match the vibe.

On those lamplit and starry nights,
After the weary sun has went to bed,
The lonely come out and convene,
Inside that melancholic stead.

A doleful gentleman sits at the empty bar,
Holding a glass of bourbon on the rocks,
He contemplates those fervent silences,
Feeling his shoes turn to cinderblocks.

Elsewhere, a lady pockets her hand mirror,
Burdened by the harsh truth thought within,
"I'll never be someone who is desired,
Not if I gain weight or starve myself thin."

The unseen space draws them inside,
A home of heartbreak and dejection,
Where every drink houses a few tears,
Lured out by their bleak perceptions.

He and she meet then, sat at the bar,
Drowning in their sorrow together,
They bond over jokes and failures,
Finding love to be a worthless endeavor.

Once we merrily bid our club farewell,
And leave the somber music behind,
It vanishes deep into the dark, obscure,
Appearing for the lonely to invite inside.

Author's Note

Any thoughts? This is one of my more recent poems after many before it. I hope anyone who sees it enjoys!

Reviews

[JayG]

• Feeling his shoes turn to cinderblocks.

Never bend the line to the needs of the rhyme. The rhyming word needs to be so perfect at completing the thought that the rhyme seems almost accidental.

And seriously, I’ve worn lots of shoes, and had my FEET feel heavy at times. But neither the weight or shape of a cinderblock fits. But you needed a rhyme, so...

• After the weary sun has went to bed,

Has WENT to bed? Well, I have a pretty good idea of where in Philly you may live. 😆

• A doleful gentleman sits at the empty bar,

Doesn't track, because you just said, “The lonely come out and convene,” which requires more than one at that bar. And given that it just began he’s not yet drunk, so why are his feet turning to stone?

My point is that you need the logic of it to work. Rhyming matters, but it’s the story you’re telling that matters.

There’s a lot to metric poetry that’s not obvious, but is necessary. So, jump over to Amazon and read the excerpt from Stephen Fry’s, The Ode Less Traveled. His analysis of the flow of language and the basics of what makes metric poetry what it is, is brilliant.

Sorry my news isn’t better, but our own writing always works for us. And since we’ll not address the problem we don’t see as being one, I thought you might want to know.

[Keon Batson]

Thank you for reading, and the advice!

[caitlin]

a very unique approach to this subject matter. ♡

[Keon Batson]

Appreciated as always!