A writer writes because she has a desire to communicate ideas or thoughts or experiences to others. A writer agonizes over word choice, punctuation, grammar, imagery, style, and all of the rest for the purpose of having something to share. For what? At times, what the writer writes is not what readers want to read (or what publishers want to publish, or printers want to print, etc.).
I write a lot. I write about what interests me. I am not even remotely cool. The odds of a traditional publisher of poetry or prose publishing some of the more quirky pieces I write hover somewhere between 'when pigs fly' and 'snowflake's chance in hell'. I am more than okay with this. This doesn't mean I wouldn't still like to share my ideas on the off chance that someone out there might understand them. A writer writes because she has a desire to communicate ideas or thoughts or experiences to others. I won't make any money off of them, but that's why I have a job.
file under 'will never be published' (no. 1):
After Cicero (Tusculanae Disputationes 1.43) Background: Diogenes was a Cynic -yes, with a capital C. Cicero reported on an interaction between Diogenes and his followers which went something like this:
Diogenes: When I die, just dump my body in the woods. Who cares? (I picture Diogenes sounding like he's from the Bronx)
Followers: But Diogenes, we can't leave you to be eaten by the animals!
Diogenes: If you're so worried, put a stick next to my body. You know --for protection.
Followers: But Diogenes, you'll be dead! How will you use the stick???
Diogenes: Exactly. Forget about it. Who cares?
Diogenes was badass. I was inspired, I guess, because the first two lines of this poem popped into my head immediately upon reading Cicero. It will never be published for the following reasons: 1) it's poetry; 2) it rhymes; and 3) it's about a dead philosopher being torn apart by wild animals, despite being given a stick (spoiler alert: he didn't use it).
After Cicero (Tusculanae Disputationes 1.43)
Poor deceased Diogenes,
When set upon by beasts with fleas,
Did not try to run and hide,
Nor use the stick placed at his side.
Instead, he lay there –very still –
While they came and ate their fill,
Those dirty beasts with mirthless fleas
Who carved up poor Diogenes.
There was nothing he could do
When gnawed on by that mangy crew,
So he stretched out on the ground
As beasts gathered all around
And snapped their savage, snarling teeth
And bit into the flesh beneath.
Ravens gave his lips a peck;
Wild dogs nibbled on his neck;
Lions feasted on his belly;
Beetles turned his knees to jelly;
Vultures circled in the skies;
Crows drove down into his eyes;
Feral cats drew angry claws –
Knife-like tools –from sheath-like paws.
Diogenes grew ever thinner
As they dug in for their dinner:
Lungs and heart, liver, spleen –
Such a dismal, bloody scene!
The living ached to see their friend
Meet this messy, pointless end.
But Diogenes, he did not ache.
He did not quiver, cry, or shake.
He did not issue weary moans
As the beasts left only bones.
Diogenes raised no alarm.
He perceived no hate or harm.
His soul did not go blank with pain.
No thoughts passed through his lifeless brain.
He felt not any tearing tooth;
Diogenes had gone, in truth.
The thing that fed the beasts with fleas –
That thing was not Diogenes,
Who days before drew final breath
And wandered off –at peace –with Death.
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