The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
“The Great American Poet,” by Jackson Williams
I’m the Great American Poet
of the star-spangled pen.
I carry this ballpoint, knowing it
won’t work the same again.
A winter life’s ice age,
my shotgun soul tells.
Words flying to the page
in blue-inked bombshells.
In battlefield fatigues,
poem attacks occur
A blissful Blitzkrieg
to mild the massacre.
It’s the poet’s story:
You’re born to cry,
Our tears are savory
for the bone dry
If an artist should go mad,
by Jesus, I’ll be sure to show it.
If an artist should be sad—
I’m the Great American Poet.
“Melancholy Man”
A symphony of sorrow follows you
Your three a.m. melodies are so blue
And there’s so much to life that you can’t see
You’re drunk on what-ifs and anxiety
Ukulele man, you can’t strum away
The dissatisfaction you don’t display
You can’t catch a break in a fishing net
The best and worst hasn’t swum to you yet
I was close; your hands drove into the ocean
And pulled out my heart and its emotion
You played my heartstrings with that guitar
That was crafted from a box of cigars
Like them, we were lit from the same lighter
A strings musician and his songwriter
I want to stay on the path with my bard
I need someone to be there: life is hard
You’ve never had to fight for love: it’s free
That fight for love separates you and me
You’re on a voyage; I’m on a quest and
I know what I want; you can’t understand
Go ahead, find yourself; I hope you do
Melancholy man, remember the view
Of the oceans of love I gave to you
Melancholy man, remember the view.
“The Violinist“
Oh, violinist, there are no tributes or curtain calls
This grocery store parking lot is quite the humbling stage
I wonder how you’ll feed your kids. Will you succeed or fall?
Is this the best you can do in your poor financial cage?
I’m sure you’ve played all of it; melancholy, love, and rage
Your song is solemn; your face is worn; I can see your pain
The rich people pass you along, not wanting to engage
They avoid eye contact, though you’re giving it your all
Your violin pulls my heartstrings; that coin jar is your wage
I share what I have to help you break free beyond the wall
I’ll watch you from my car—I want to understand or gauge
How the people ignore a man who should be on a stage
With nothing but two kids to feed, I wish you were set free
