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[waitingtobeamup]

Here is a sentence from my last post: You might even say we're in a glass box.

Here is that same sentence as contemporary poetry:

you might even
say

we re
in a glass
box

Contemporary poetry isn't poetry. It's pretentiousness incarnate.

Here is the "poem" we read and analyzed in English class today:

so much depends

Comments

[meganfaye]

no no no no no!!!!!!!!!!

It went like this:

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

JEEZ Devin get it right!

[waitingtobeamup]

I DID get it right. I'm copying straight off the handout she gave us after you left for the dentist. According to this, it goes exactly as I copied it.

Now, go make love to a discontented porcupine that's high on ether.

[poorernie]

*cough

[waitingtobeamup]

1) Intellectually speaking, I'm in love with you.
2) You're probably the only person I know who would write that sort of comment, and the only one I'd let get away with it.
3) My biggest complaint is not with the poem, but with the idea of analyzing it. If we are to analyze something in terms of what the author was thinking, I want it to be Robert Frost or E.A. Poe or something jucier than chickens. I dislike having to bullshit responses because I know that I could be enjoying poetry instead.

[poorernie]

drama faces:
=(
=)

by the way, if you didn't notice, I said I loved Brazil. a lot. I was completely in shock for the last hour of it.
that is all.

you're a moron.

[anonymous]

I love this poem.

And if you think Poe is deep, I might also recommend 'Thundercats'; it, too, is rife with dark sexual metaphor.

Re: you're a moron.

[waitingtobeamup]

Poe isn't really that sexual in his writing. Take, for instance, The Raven. He wanted to write something tragic and in preparation he concluded that the most tragic subject in the world was the death of a beautiful woman. The longing in that poem isn't one of lust or sexual tension. A man is lamenting the death of his lover, whom he idolizes for he loves her so very much.

Now, if I may command you to do so, drop dead you liverbucket for criticizing me, endorsing fraudulent writing (it isn't poetry at all), and being ninnyheaded enough to not even leave your name.