I’m bored and can’t sleep, so I’m gonna do my English major close reading thing. And no, whatever original intention there was here doesn’t matter.
poem: being awake is a mistake
Firstly, the surface meaning here isn’t quite as cut and dry as might first appear. Regretting being awake could mean any number of things. Or perhaps even it isn’t regret at all. Calling being awake a mistake could refer to the uncomfortable feeling of getting out of bed, the existential dread typical of the website and era this poem was published in, something related to mental illness, or perhaps just an annoyed jab at whatever activity is occurring.
Second, this is most likely meant to be comedic and the rhyming element gives the work a slightly juvenile and playful vibe while still remaining cynical in tone. And the poem itself acknowledges that it is a poem. The colon indicates that the second part is more important than the first, that “poem” is not nearly as important as “being awake is a mistake”. However, the putting of “poem” there in the first place and the lack of capitalization anywhere give it a slightly otherworldly or cryptic feeling typical of the 21st century meme. It could be a commentary on poetry, or the current state of internet culture, relying on “relatable” content and existential dread in order to gain attention.
And that’s as far as I wanna go tonight. Honestly, the tiniest poems are the most packed with stuff and this is ripe for close reading. I could write a small paper on this tiny poem but I’ll spare you. Goodnight.
i would disagree—the poem is obviously critiquing the current political landscape of the decade. with the rising popularity of the term “woke” in reference to those who are critical of systematic abuses, (among other things, this critique is by no means exhaustive)
by the government they reside in, Everman is attempting to coin a new phrase, sister to “Ignorance is Bliss”. Everman here defines “awakeness” (”wokeness”) as a mistake, with the implication that being aware of injustice incurs feelings of dread and hopelessness. really, “being awake is a mistake” is a deeply millennial writing and expresses not only the doubt of aging in an unstable economic and sociopolitical environment wherein not only our labor exists to be undervalued and exploited, but conveys our generational existential angst as well. a masterpiece.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
Roses are red, that much is true, but violets are purple, not fucking blue.
I have been waiting for this post all my life.
They are indeed purple, But one thing you’ve missed: The concept of “purple” Didn’t always exist.
Some cultures lack names For a color, you see. Hence good old Homer And his “wine-dark sea.”
A usage so quaint, A phrasing so old, For verses of romance Is sheer fucking gold.
So roses are red. Violets once were called blue. I’m hugely pedantic But what else is new?
My friend you’re not wrong
About Homer’s wine-ey sea!
Colours are a matter
Of cultural contingency;
Words are in flux
And meanings they drift
But the word purple
You’ve given short shrift.
The concept of purple,
My friends, is old
And refers to a pigment
once precious as gold.
By crushing up molluscs
From the wine-dark sea
You make a dye:
Imperial decree
Meant that in Rome,
to wear purpura
was a privilege reserved
For only the emperor!
The word ‘purple’,
for clothes so fancy,
Entered English
By the ninth century
.
Why then are voilets
Not purple in song?
The dye from this mollusc,
known for so long
Is almost magenta;
More red than blue.
The concept of purple
is old, and yet new.
The dye is red,
So this might be true:
Roses are purple
And violets are blue
.
While this song makes me merry, Tyrian purple dyes many a hue From magenta to berry And a true purple too.
But fun as it is to watch this poetic race The answer is staring you right in the face: Roses are red and violets are blue Because nothing fucking rhymes with purple.
1. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.
2. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy.
3. Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known.
4. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering.
5. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” Resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.
6. Write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival Mr. Darcy’s. Debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? In her coat pocket? Throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. Let her wonder if you meant it.
7. Wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. Wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing Wabash against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. Tell her with your hands shaking.
8. Say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. Over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. Do not adorn it with extra words like “I think” or “I might.” Do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. Look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “I love you too.”
Steel Phoenix Studios 