. . .And I didn't Even Know It!
I realized last night that I am no poet.
I used to spend so much time writing them. I always had a little notebook with me to jot things down. I still have tons of place mats and receipt paper from restaurants and stores I once worked at filled with scrawled and hasty poetry. Writing poetry just came naturally then. There was no question about doing it, it just came like bolts of lightning, or like skin forming on softly bubbling warming milk on the stove, but it came.
And then it stopped. Not all at once, they came less and less often, until I could not longer remember when the last time was and I could not even find where whatever it was might be written - buried deep in some journal from the year before. . .
And now, when I do find them, I see some nugget of quality in there, but overall the poems are disappointing, repetitive, derivative and meandering. Oh, do they meander.
I wish I could command the clean and clear language I think good poetry uses - that powerful textured image that melts on the tongue exposing layer within layer of meaning and resonance, unlocking subtle flavors that linger deliciously for hours.
Revision is the key to good poetry, and I have not spent my time and energy nurturing those nuggets of quality, treating them like fragile seeds that need to be planted and cared for in order to make them sprout into something worthwhile.
I would not even know where to begin to write a poem these days. The more I have read and studied poetry the more I have learned what good poetry is and that has led me to learn that I am incapable of it - at least at this moment - especially because of the pressure I would put on myself for it to stand up to an ideal it took others years to develop - though there are those to whom it came almost naturally.
I feel like I don't want to bother even trying to write a poem unless I am going to give it the time and attention it deserves.
I used to spend so much time writing them. I always had a little notebook with me to jot things down. I still have tons of place mats and receipt paper from restaurants and stores I once worked at filled with scrawled and hasty poetry. Writing poetry just came naturally then. There was no question about doing it, it just came like bolts of lightning, or like skin forming on softly bubbling warming milk on the stove, but it came.
And then it stopped. Not all at once, they came less and less often, until I could not longer remember when the last time was and I could not even find where whatever it was might be written - buried deep in some journal from the year before. . .
And now, when I do find them, I see some nugget of quality in there, but overall the poems are disappointing, repetitive, derivative and meandering. Oh, do they meander.
I wish I could command the clean and clear language I think good poetry uses - that powerful textured image that melts on the tongue exposing layer within layer of meaning and resonance, unlocking subtle flavors that linger deliciously for hours.
Revision is the key to good poetry, and I have not spent my time and energy nurturing those nuggets of quality, treating them like fragile seeds that need to be planted and cared for in order to make them sprout into something worthwhile.
I would not even know where to begin to write a poem these days. The more I have read and studied poetry the more I have learned what good poetry is and that has led me to learn that I am incapable of it - at least at this moment - especially because of the pressure I would put on myself for it to stand up to an ideal it took others years to develop - though there are those to whom it came almost naturally.
I feel like I don't want to bother even trying to write a poem unless I am going to give it the time and attention it deserves.