A POET I WILL NEVER BE

 

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.