Dusting the Poetry
My breaks seem to typically be characterized by a point in time when I become so unbearably bored that I start obsessive compulsively dusting. Yes, dusting. Considering that dusting is just about “plankton” on my cleaning-list-food-chain for my apartment, when I start dusting my parents’ house like a maniac it’s a pretty good sign I’m desperately ready to go back to my own reality. I also tend to get a strong “must be creative!” urge on breaks too. Must be withdrawal symptoms from my production/accomplishment addiction. It doesn’t matter what it is: writing books, writing songs, writing poetry, blogging, attempting some dangerous/messy new craft-I just need to feel like I’m accomplishing SOMETHING. And for a person who is NOT crafty or poetic, that’s a bad sign too. Poetry especially. I wrote a poem once about how much I dislike writing poetry. Ha! I should post that.
The Non-Poem
I do not have a thing to write,
and so I’ve stayed up half the night.
I can’t give up ‘till I succeed,
a simple poem’s what I need.
This poetry is dreadful stuff,
with all it’s rhythm, rhyme and fluff.
I don’t write poems, I write books
of damsels, knights and handsome crooks.
But poetry is not the same,
you have to write within a frame.
Your lines must flow exactly right,
with ev’ry phrase precise and tight.
I can’t use this word, it’s too long,
if I leave it in then my rhythm is so wrong.
I have to find a word that rhymes,
it make me grammar bad somes times.
And tell me what to write about?
It’s way too tough to figure out.
A profound question’s what you need
to make a poem worth the read.
This line’s too long, that one’s too short,
I move and change, re-write and sort.
This doesn’t work, I’ve failed right here,
this word is dumb, this phrase is queer.
It’s not my fault, I can’t help it.
I wasn’t born as a poet!
My poems would drive a reader wild,
they’d think ’twas written by a child.
I’ll send it to an editor,
who’ll say, “Good gracious, this is poor.”
He’ll tear it up with anguished roar,
“Don’t let her send me any more!”
I’ve given up; “I quit!” I say,
Oh won’t you make it go away?
You’ll never find a poem by me,
Not now, not when I’m eighty three!
From poetry I’ll always flee,
and now for my apology.
If ev’r by me a poem you see,
it’s not my fault--my teacher made me.
The Non-Poem
I do not have a thing to write,
and so I’ve stayed up half the night.
I can’t give up ‘till I succeed,
a simple poem’s what I need.
This poetry is dreadful stuff,
with all it’s rhythm, rhyme and fluff.
I don’t write poems, I write books
of damsels, knights and handsome crooks.
But poetry is not the same,
you have to write within a frame.
Your lines must flow exactly right,
with ev’ry phrase precise and tight.
I can’t use this word, it’s too long,
if I leave it in then my rhythm is so wrong.
I have to find a word that rhymes,
it make me grammar bad somes times.
And tell me what to write about?
It’s way too tough to figure out.
A profound question’s what you need
to make a poem worth the read.
This line’s too long, that one’s too short,
I move and change, re-write and sort.
This doesn’t work, I’ve failed right here,
this word is dumb, this phrase is queer.
It’s not my fault, I can’t help it.
I wasn’t born as a poet!
My poems would drive a reader wild,
they’d think ’twas written by a child.
I’ll send it to an editor,
who’ll say, “Good gracious, this is poor.”
He’ll tear it up with anguished roar,
“Don’t let her send me any more!”
I’ve given up; “I quit!” I say,
Oh won’t you make it go away?
You’ll never find a poem by me,
Not now, not when I’m eighty three!
From poetry I’ll always flee,
and now for my apology.
If ev’r by me a poem you see,
it’s not my fault--my teacher made me.