Not about anyone in particular. It was just one those weekends...
(5 May 2012)
I spent today
Reading other people’s poetry -
Rhyming schemes forced and
Not a single redeeming stanza
I wanted to tell them
Neruda put an end to ambition
With his gnarled fingers licking
At the flames of immortality
Whilst their poetry
Regurgitates Bukowski’s tired
Fatalism, still hanging from
Open windows and thinking
How funny it would be to
Not fall and write about it.
I wanted to tell them, I really
Did, but instead I emulated
Their exhausted and grammatically
Flattery is not a day of the week
But perhaps it should be.)
By day’s end,
I’d spent more time thinking up
Titles than I had writing
------ I will never write like you and I hope you never write like me.
"...the only war that matters is the war against the imagination--all other wars are subsumed in it..." -Diane di Prima
Cinco de Mayo
The random thought that occurred to me as I read this was the date you included. I believe this wasn't a celebratory notation and instead was for clarity. Here's the thing. One never knows what's going on in one's mind at the best of times. The reason our writing surprises us often and makes us wonder where our head was at. This is why I like poetry. One can interpret on the wings of their own whims and the author might argue but it's pointless because there's no rational reason to berate a reader who went gamboling in a garden of words.
I will also be bold enough to point out that you emphasized the day within your poem and it caught my eye and my mind.
Thank you James, Pen, Lucie and Robert. The date is only a date. There is nothing significant about it. Teachers would tell me to write the Americanized way but I've always been stubborn. Figured as long as I was turning in assignments on time the posted date was irrelevant.
Just one thing, Pen, I probably read your comment wrong, but I am not berating anyone. If anything I think I showed my ignorance on such matters.
the squeaking door
a very oblique view of the poetic content of...well just about any poem I suppose. But I like the double meaning -- can agree with the feeling of unsatisfication, sometimes I think "why waste an of those words, let alone the time to try
At the the same time I feel inadequate in my own writing because I feel as though -- no, I know that I spend too much time trying to craft the thing that has bugged me for days, weeks, months -- that thought I am trying to perfect in written form.
I envy those who can just write free form thoughts and form them into poetry, even if forced and meaningless...but I normally will not offer comments..
Thanks for making me "think" about our little village
I'll be honest and admit it was in response to stuff I was reading on Facebook. No one who posts on lit, of course. But there are a lot of people on other sites who I imagine pat themselves on the back while they're posting their poetry.
Perhaps in other circles their poetry is considered good and I'm just being a jerk. Or perhaps I'm just jaded and forgot how much worse I was twenty years ago. Not that I consider myself better than others - just better than Francisco at 23.