deepundergroundpoetry.com
Death of an Author
“Death of the Author is a concept from mid-20th Century literary criticism; it holds that an author's intentions and biographical facts (the author's politics, religion, etc) should hold no special weight in determining an interpretation of their writing.“ - “Death of the Author”, tvtropes.org
You seek to take a blade
and make a cut between
the text and its author,
that Siamese twin-ship
no longer viable.
Perhaps he’s been accused
of deviant sex acts,
or she’s revealed a line in bigotry
hitherto unknown.
Maybe she’s a blood-soaked maniac.
The point is this: the jewel that once
belonged to both of you
has dulled in shine,
as layers fell away
until the evil was exposed.
The ugly grinning face you saw
destroyed that perfect love
you held as child for parent.
The joy you found in Creation
was missing from its Creator.
I neither will nor can begin
to teach you how to love,
only state my own approach:
that art exists because
mankind is flawed.
If it was not we wouldn’t need
or even want
artistic endeavour.
So if a writer, painter, or
some other artist’s dead, perhaps forget.
Or else acknowledge and regret
but still take that which you can get
from the old bastard’s corpse.
Or do a thousand other things.
The art’s in your hands, now.
You seek to take a blade
and make a cut between
the text and its author,
that Siamese twin-ship
no longer viable.
Perhaps he’s been accused
of deviant sex acts,
or she’s revealed a line in bigotry
hitherto unknown.
Maybe she’s a blood-soaked maniac.
The point is this: the jewel that once
belonged to both of you
has dulled in shine,
as layers fell away
until the evil was exposed.
The ugly grinning face you saw
destroyed that perfect love
you held as child for parent.
The joy you found in Creation
was missing from its Creator.
I neither will nor can begin
to teach you how to love,
only state my own approach:
that art exists because
mankind is flawed.
If it was not we wouldn’t need
or even want
artistic endeavour.
So if a writer, painter, or
some other artist’s dead, perhaps forget.
Or else acknowledge and regret
but still take that which you can get
from the old bastard’s corpse.
Or do a thousand other things.
The art’s in your hands, now.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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