(no subject)

[froggy_dear]

I was thinking about poetry on the way home. Seattle Metro has this thing where they put short poems up inside the bus, interspersed with those ads they have in buses. The short poems are by both adults (who I assume to be Professional Poets) and children, with their grade level noted. The student one on the bus tonight was straight out of my middle school psyche. Books v. the outside world. I am one with my books, so I don't need to seek out an outside life.

It's insipid.

I used to fancy myself a poet. I used to breathe poetry.

Not poetry. I used to breathe cliches bound up in teenage angst and fledgling love. I did it okay. I once got $5000 for doing it. But I've stopped.

I don't think it's because I've stopped feeling as strongly as I used to. Poems were rarely those meaning packed bundles that everyone praises today. They were primarily long ranting sets of anger, or meditations on poetry itself. Not the delicate dance of words that is poetry at its best. Give me four or five lines of playful words, if that. More often than not, a poem I wrote would be a paragraph with irregular line breaks.

So this disillusionment with poetry. You know where it came from? Getting a degree in English. By my senior year, especially, I hated pulling meanings out of words, meanings that were probably not even intended by the original authors, and suavely passing off that bullshit. It wasn't productive. My focus shifted from meaning to doing. That's why I'm in museums now. I couldn't take anymore sitting around and talking in circles.

And I still like the idea of poetry, but... I rarely see it done in a way that interests me and that I find worthwhile. I'm torn. I don't want to feel this way. But I do.

Actually, I've seen some poetry on the buses that I enjoy. The Professional Poet poem on the bus today did not inspire me. It confused me and just seemed... pointless.

the swede equation

the whole of the parts
is not summed up in lutefisk or lye.
this brain is not gelatinous.
this big swede equals two shakes
of a stick or the polyglot ear fine-tuned on abba
and the millionaire question
can you hear the drums, fernando?

William Freeberg


And, if you're interested, the one that got me started on this.

Idle October

One idle afternoon, in October,
Gilt sunlight falls across an empty vase; touches my fingertips.
There is silence but for the turning pages of yet another book.
Is it time, to go outside and find myself?
Or should I stay here, with the book,
Because this is me, already found.

Anna Miller, 8th grade

Comments

[drcristin.livejournal.com]

I agree with your assessment of the professional poem... ugh. On the other hand, wow, what a promising 8th grader.