![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
So here's some more poetry, dusted off and edited for your amusement. I think I may be posting poetry more frequently.
In case anyone is wondering why, let me explain a little something. Me and Poetry have a strange, strange relationship. Once upon a time we were the best of friends. Poetry had a way of making me feel exhilarated and better than myself. I was smitten. Deep, deep smit.
And by smit, I mean that I filled notebooks with my adolescent angst which was just as bad as one expects, and I looked on my works like God looking down at the Garden of Eden and said to my young, angsty little self, "This is good." I even thought that I'd publish them and be famous and everyone would think I was The Best, Coolest, Deepest Thing Ever.
Well, then I started reading lots and lots of other people's poems. And I realized that, well, they were infinitely better. Which made me say to Poetry, "You cheating little hussy."
It sort of broke my heart.
I decided that I was done with Poetry forever. I was done reading it, writing it, thinking about it, participating in it. I couldn't stand the sight of poems. Of any poems. Hell, I couldn't even open a Dr. Seuss book without a great gnashing of teeth. This is not at all an exaggeration. I just couldn't deal with Poetry. It made me feel ashamed of myself and I've got enough shame, thanks much. No need for second helpings.
Then, after a while, tempers settled (mine) and Poetry revealed that she had, in fact, screwed over a great number of her other paramours, I felt less stupid.
While I felt better that it wasn't just me, I'm not the forgiving sort. I don't put up with humiliation well. Not to mention that me and Prose have a nice, steady thing going on. A thing which doesn't make me feel like such a jerk.
But Poetry is nothing if not a sneaky little bitch. And she has a way of making you miss her, has a way of putting the shine back on things that you, frankly, thought were shit. She also has a way of nagging you to be brave, of making you need to say something and pushing you to say it, even if the timing is exactly wrong.
She also has a way of making you need to say it to other people, to express it aloud instead of hiding it in a notebook which you then bury in a lead lined coffin in the middle of nowhere, because that's what it deserves.
So, I'm trying to strike a balance these days. Which includes reading poetry again, in limited doses and sometimes writing and sharing it.
Which is where the livejournal comes in.
Hopefully I can scratch the itch, but do so in a limited environment instead of taking a spectacular header off a high dive by doing something so retarded as reading my poems to an entire class or (*wince*) putting them in front of a poetry editor. Both of which I've done once and intend never to do again so long as I draw breath, so help me.
Keeping this all in mind, if you should happen by and feel the need to flog yourself using my words, maybe you'll find a line or two that makes you smile, or at least doesn't bore you. And if you should happen to comment, I will take it bravely and in the spirit is intended.
*deep breath*
( poem: The Closest Thing to Telepathy )
In case anyone is wondering why, let me explain a little something. Me and Poetry have a strange, strange relationship. Once upon a time we were the best of friends. Poetry had a way of making me feel exhilarated and better than myself. I was smitten. Deep, deep smit.
And by smit, I mean that I filled notebooks with my adolescent angst which was just as bad as one expects, and I looked on my works like God looking down at the Garden of Eden and said to my young, angsty little self, "This is good." I even thought that I'd publish them and be famous and everyone would think I was The Best, Coolest, Deepest Thing Ever.
Well, then I started reading lots and lots of other people's poems. And I realized that, well, they were infinitely better. Which made me say to Poetry, "You cheating little hussy."
It sort of broke my heart.
I decided that I was done with Poetry forever. I was done reading it, writing it, thinking about it, participating in it. I couldn't stand the sight of poems. Of any poems. Hell, I couldn't even open a Dr. Seuss book without a great gnashing of teeth. This is not at all an exaggeration. I just couldn't deal with Poetry. It made me feel ashamed of myself and I've got enough shame, thanks much. No need for second helpings.
Then, after a while, tempers settled (mine) and Poetry revealed that she had, in fact, screwed over a great number of her other paramours, I felt less stupid.
While I felt better that it wasn't just me, I'm not the forgiving sort. I don't put up with humiliation well. Not to mention that me and Prose have a nice, steady thing going on. A thing which doesn't make me feel like such a jerk.
But Poetry is nothing if not a sneaky little bitch. And she has a way of making you miss her, has a way of putting the shine back on things that you, frankly, thought were shit. She also has a way of nagging you to be brave, of making you need to say something and pushing you to say it, even if the timing is exactly wrong.
She also has a way of making you need to say it to other people, to express it aloud instead of hiding it in a notebook which you then bury in a lead lined coffin in the middle of nowhere, because that's what it deserves.
So, I'm trying to strike a balance these days. Which includes reading poetry again, in limited doses and sometimes writing and sharing it.
Which is where the livejournal comes in.
Hopefully I can scratch the itch, but do so in a limited environment instead of taking a spectacular header off a high dive by doing something so retarded as reading my poems to an entire class or (*wince*) putting them in front of a poetry editor. Both of which I've done once and intend never to do again so long as I draw breath, so help me.
Keeping this all in mind, if you should happen by and feel the need to flog yourself using my words, maybe you'll find a line or two that makes you smile, or at least doesn't bore you. And if you should happen to comment, I will take it bravely and in the spirit is intended.
*deep breath*
( poem: The Closest Thing to Telepathy )
