In Defense of the Perpetration of Poetry

The perpetration of poetry; normally I lock all such disgraceful moments away into a deep closet box, never to be allowed near decent people. But tonight I feel fey and daring, and willing to inflict upon my readers a more . . . lyrical version of my writing, if you will. I remember entering a contest once, some years ago, and seeing a note on my returned submission that my writing “suffers from an insistence on the poetic”. No kidding. I still have no idea what the judge meant by that . . . as I wasn’t trying to be at all poetic in this particular piece. Five of my friends and family members, examining the comment and the contents it referred to, were equally mystified; eventually I just shrugged and turned the rejected fragment into a novel.

(Which rather typifies my approach to most things, come to think of it.)

Ah, I’m wandering off-topic. But random paths turn up much more delightful insights and amusing anecdotes, inspiring revelations and startling beauties, than following the same course day after day . . . no? All right, I’ll get back on track, then.

Poetry has been a part of mankind’s history since we developed the first language capable of binding concepts to reality. It has been revered and reviled, mocked and martyred, worshiped and widdled upon.

Poetry is dangerous. It’s subversive, shifting words around like fluid, changing their meanings, changing the way you see the world, yourself, and your loved ones . . . and it can change their view of you as well, I suspect not usually for the better (unless you’re lucky enough to be surrounded by creatives).

Poetry is an addiction. Well, any art is an addiction, but poetry tends to bleed outside its rightful borders into all the other arts as well. I’ve put poems on graphic design pieces, scribbled them on napkins and turned them into pieces in my books. I have seen artwork that makes me write poems and poems that make me reach for my pastels, and books that are clearly written by a repressed poet badly in need of a latte and a beret . . . or, these days, an energy drink and a nose ring.

In a world filled with “buy me now and improve your life!” aimed at susceptible teenagers and people desperately in debt, poetry is free and does more with less. In a landscape littered with false advertising and scams, poetry promises nothing and delivers more than the latest hot trend, whether that be a Macintosh-with-iphone, best-ever-stock-pick, or amazing-time-to-buy-a-car.

Hmm . . . no, I suppose I’m still on topic. How surprising.

The experience of giving in to that sadomasochistic urge, of flinging yourself off a literary cliff and not knowing whether you will splat or swing into the sky, is unnerving and painful. I think I hide my poetry away not because it’s bad (but believe me, most of it really is), but because it’s so much more open than my fiction writing or even my non-fiction articles. There’s no filter, no “right way” to arrange anything; grammar and punctuation, my steady guides and helpers, go out the window, and I’m left dangling in midair waiting for either the laugh or the sneer, the “wow” or the “urgh”, from readers.

At least with “normal” writing I can say I did it “right”, from a technical aspect; but how the hell to you know when you’ve got a poem “right”? It’s impossible! Poetry is prose that’s lost its girdle. It’s on the loose and out of hand, and tacking it into constraints is like trying to stuff an elephant inside of a tampon.

. . . There, see what I mean? See how I get when poetry has grabbed me? I’d better go have a quiet lie-down for a bit now, before it makes me do anything more dangerous than prompting people to spray energy drinks all over their monitors.

I’ll wrap up, shamelessly, with one of the poems from this night’s outing (put that drink down, now . . . finish wiping off the screen . . . there you go. All right, ready? Good.)

 

a store a hat a time a trial

melting like the ice

around a lemon slice

dissolving into the future

molecules of the past

 

There now, I think I’ve done enough damage for one night . . . good night to all, and to all a good night! Thanks for playing, folks.

P.S.: For a tasteless joke about one of the above references, click here. (Hint: It involves elephants.)