A POET I WILL NEVER BE
Poetry is like a
leaking ink pen leaving Rorschach blobs open to interpretation
Bear with me, even if the following article will irk your ire
and is a deviation from my usual commentaries; current affairs and writing
about our perilous earthly journey as we navigate everything human. It started with a simple buzz word: poetic
license. Don’t ask me why. Subconscious triggers? Sometimes a single word can spawn a creative
writing direction that triggers memories submerged in the mind (in this case my
mind). And in this case it sure
did! The first line I came up with (I
take extensive notes while contemplating a subject for an article and some
actually make it to the intended article): poetry is like a leaking ink pen
leaving Rorschach blobs open to interpretation.
There is nothing better than starting an article with a
provocative opening, not raising eyebrows, but hackles of indignation. Especially within literary circles poetry
holds a special place and any perceived slight is like stepping onto sensitive
toes. State that you don’t care for
poetry and you’re attacked as if you were a Philistine. (In the Old Testament the Philistines were a
much loathed tribe whom the Israelites hated for their aggression and
destructive battles. They fought quite a
bit.) The Middle East, it has always
been a timeless historical hotspot and they’re not quibbling about sand, but
about religion! If it were fertile like
the Napa Valley they’d be too busy brewing, growing and trading and the great
prophets would have risen elsewhere. The
Middle East has had its fair share of conflict and continues to live up to its
reputation as being a contentious piece of real estate. Since those early days Philistines have migrated
across the globe and they now live amongst us in large numbers, known as people
who will wreck and ruin everything that is good and decent. They’re easy to spot!
Why does sand and
barren terrain create such hostile environments? I’m just throwing out a question here.
Back to poetry and the memories this subject triggered. This is probably a personal bias but I have
always felt that only pedantic, pretentious snobs are attracted to poetry. I have honestly tried to appreciate the
intricacy of the written word in all its forms, but when it comes to poetry I
have simply given up. Trying to
concentrate on the flow of the verse, the right diction and simultaneously
attempting to figure out intent and meaning, it really taxes my brain like an
excruciating form of torture and I quickly lose interest.
Confession time. As an
adolescent, in my late teens, I did produce a small bundle of poetry that
actually went over quite well with a select group of people who chose one of my
poems for one of their gatherings. Most
people get together for beer, pizza and a game, but there are a modest few who actively
pursue a more spiritual lifestyle, for whatever reason. A former priest moderated this particular
event—he happened to be my theology professor—and for the life of me I can’t remember
much of this evening other that in hindsight it didn’t leave me with a lasting
impression or something I wanted to pursue in earnest. Why did I write poetry? For starters you’ve got to start somewhere
and I probably didn’t have a novel in me.
That occurred much later in life.
Also, adolescent girls love poets, especially if a specific poem has
been written just for them. It tends to
pave the way for an amorous conquest without the predictable obstacles. Once they’re married and the lines keep coming
a certain degree of skepticism creeps in.
Besotted as a teenager is one thing, but you grow out of it as an adult. It is not pub subject either nor is it a
masculine thing. As an aside. In a shop I frequent one of the counter girls
found out that I was a writer and she exclaimed enthusiastically, “Are you a
poet?”
“No, I write novels.”
“Oh.”
The look of disappointment in her eyes was obvious and that
little glimmer of enthusiasm dimmed rather quickly. I guess writers are a dime a dozen and you really
have to look hard to find a poet. Lift
up those rocks and keep looking!
One of the nails that did it for me is the following true
story. (Beware that writers lie a lot
and make things up for a living) I need
to put in an accolade for one of the finest teachers’ I have ever had. A physical description is in order. He was a large, stout individual. Butt ugly with thinning greasy hair, a huge
protrusion on his forehead (this man was so intelligent that I considered this
big lump to be an extension of his brain because it required the extra storage
space) and a shabby dresser. But, he was
also the most intelligent, witty and down-to-earth person I’ve ever met. He was a true-to-life Cyrano de Bergerac,
slightly irreverent and self-deprecating and a born raconteur. His wife was drop-dead gorgeous and I am
positive that he could charm/talk many a female out of their panties. He was my Dutch language professor and poetry
was a mandatory part of the curriculum.
We discussed a poem that had all of us stumped and in particular one
obscure word that didn’t seem to fit in at all.
Nobody could figure out what it meant or why it was included. My dear professor actually had met the chap
and had his phone number. He
called. We waited with baited
breath. The answer. “I don’t have a clue. It probably sounded good at the time.”
I am convinced that most poets are simply incapable of
writing a novel. Basically they are
equipped with esoteric minds and a short attention span (hence resorting to
poems). I have met a few poets in my
time and all of them have come across as suffering. It is as if their poetry puts them through
the wringer of life (old fashioned washing machines were equipped with a
wringer and were referred to as wringer washers, my mother had one). Where we (ordinary people) would observe soapsuds
and dirty water being squeezed out between the rollers, leave it to poets to
conjure up life, mysticism and a veritable kaleidoscope of images and color, of
Weltschmerz and Lebensangst. A delightful
opportunity for me to show off how much I like those Germans and how some of
their words and expressions manage to encompass an entire subject in one single
word. Hats off to those Teutonic
ancestors and their offspring and this ability to express themselves with such
magnificence. Although they are an
industrious race, hard working and disciplined, they do know how to suffer and
express it in a language that is both guttural and bites. Don’t stand to close, it comes with spittle!
Limited uses.
Poetry does have its place and I often observe it being used
on special occasions, like a funeral. An
appropriate poem substituting for a eulogy. When one of my Latin professors graduated with
a doctorate in Latin some obscure poems were recited and of course they
contained lines that a; nobody in the audience had ever heard of (as students
we were forced to be in attendance to add numbers to the welcoming committee)
or b; just a few smug, well-educated colleagues were in on the deeper
meaning. We were merely peasants
awaiting to be imbued with their instructions and knowledge so that over time
we too could be welcomed into the higher halls of learning.
"I' m pretty sure I was a poet in a former life."
As an author reading from a novel at a gathering you might
get away with a few paragraphs or a short chapter, but a poem demands special
attention because you get the whole thing, whether you like it or not. I envy the souls who get the diction just
right. The tempo. The flow.
Even if they haven’t got a clue as to what they have just expressed so
eloquently.
I’m pretty sure that I will be safe from being hectored by
any poets or aficionados of the genre, because I doubt that any of them even
read my stuff. They probably would not
care for the subjects or the clarity of my writing. I don’t like ambiguity.
Feel free to comment or share, and better yet, respond with
an appropriate poetic verse, rhyme or stanza.
Even a naughty limerick! An opportunity
to take poetic revenge and do it with poetic license if you so desire (I knew
it would come back to me, the license thing).
Hey-ho, excoriate the bastard and burn him on the altar of poetry
sacrilege.























