Done To Death by Tonin

Done To Death

Done To Death

I tried to write a poem
But it's all been done to death
The moon, the stars, a distant howl
The puff of frozen breath

Those paths are thick with paw prints
Of those who've gone before
And it takes a foolish poet
To think he could add more

What good's a wolfish fancy
When you're stuck with skin and shoes
And there's a pile of filk and films
From which you're free to choose?

There is no point save ego
A pup's need to be heard
To have the pack adore him
And hang upon his word

And so I wrote no poem
Of claw or fang or fur
For nothing I say matters
With what has gone before

--Tonin, October 30th, 2019

Done To Death


23 November 2019 at 20:39:55 MST

I tried to write a poem for Wolfenoot, but realized it was just a regurgitation of Heather Alexander's Blood And Passion mixed with imagery from Balto and Wolves' Rain. There's too much rehash in the world already, so instead I'll just direct you to the affore mentioned song, or to Chama's Wolves or to Frumpy Doggie's video of Dear Rabbit (all three of which any furry should listen to at least once), and consider my wolfish duty done for the next year.

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Literary / Poetry / Lyrics

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    As we're told the wise king wrote,
    "Foolishness, folly, all is vanity!"
    Upon our ears these sad words smote:
    "Not a single thing new under this sun!"

    Now I'm just a silly coyote here,
    To stand against old Solomon's word;
    But here's a thought I've treasured dear,
    So leave or take it as you would.

    Creation's not an act of vanity!
    (those bitter words ring jealous to me);
    It's rather more an act of sanity,
    To dream, to live, to strive.

    A storyteller's a shameless liar,
    A tale a ghostly, intangible thing;
    Yet fairy-stories draw our eyes higher,
    Toward noble goals only faintly seen.

    You oughtn't trust these truths I speak,
    I told you straight I was a liar;
    Yet stories make our lives less bleak,
    And soften hard hearts forged to iron.

    Yes: we borrow what's come before,
    Ours is but a debtor's trade;
    No myth our own, nor legend-lore,
    And Solomon? He's seen it all.

    But the value's not the story's worth
    Nor shame doled out against artistry
    There's only the pleasure telling brought forth
    And friend? That pleasure's yours.

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      *claps* Nicely said there.

      To be honest, I’ve yet to reach a satisfactory conclusion on the issue. There’s truth in that old line about the forest being a very quiet place if the only birds who sang were those who sang best, but it’s also true that if all the birds sang all the time we’d need earplugs to go outside.

      The older I get and the more art I’ve experienced, the less it seems like the forest needs me to repeat minor variations on other people’s songs. When someone else has already hit the nail on the head, sometimes it’s better to listen than to sing.