DESCRIPTION
I wrote this rant about poetry when I was really frustrated because I had to write a bunch of poems in my creative writing class, which I hated doing. I got good grades on them, but I grew to really hate poetry, so I decided to write about it. If you're a poet, don't read this. You'll find it offensive. I reallly don't hate poetry as long as I don't have to write it, but... [734 words]
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Poetry: Exposed Steven T
Have you ever just finished reading a poem and thought, what the heck does this thing mean?” That’s poetry for you. It only makes sense to certain people; people blessed with the poet’s eye and ear. And no matter how much the poet army tries to explain what poetry means to ordinary people, they cant. Poets believe that poetry is an actual living, breathing thing. To them poetry is about structure, line breaks, rhythm, content, figures of speech, and most of all, meaning. Meaning is very important to poets.
As I said, people who are not blessed with the poet’s eye and ear don’t get poetry. They don’t care what a poem may be about or what the real meaning of the poem may be. Heck people who are poetically stupid can’t even read an entire poem, much less understand it. They start to read it and after about twelve words and two or so cheesy metaphors, stop and say: “I know what this “nature” poem really is. It’s an old script Shakespeare wrote for some documentary. It’s nothing more than that, nothing.”
But there are always people who try to build poetry up to more than it really is. Why? These people like to make sense out of poets fragmented thoughts. Their goal in life is not only to read poetry, but also to understand it.
Ordinary people do not try to understand poetry. Why? Because to really understand the deeper meaning behind a poem that poets are always screaming about, you have to read a certain poem at least ten times! Then you end up with a headache. Frustrated, You scream, “This is poetry? I thought it was supposed to be relaxing, calm me down and get me in touch with that something I didn’t know existed before I read this poem.” That’s the misconception about poetry: It’s not relaxing.
Now you know why all the supposed great poets died at an early age. The lived in a cardboard box, slowly suffocating, too busy agonizing, trying to come up with that word or theme for there “great” poem that was going to land it in future literature books and punch the poet’s ticket to immortality. They’re able to crank out a few good poems and win much acclaim and fanfare, but then after awhile they just can’t do it anymore.
They look to their friends for help and want to ask them how they lost that “special something” that the critics were raving about just a few poems ago. But they don’t have many friends, so they desperately write more poetry, hoping that it holds the answers, but the poetry doesn’t have any answers, only more questions. So they try to read some of their old poetry, thinking that surely they can find some answers there. But now even their award winning poetry doesn’t make sense to them anymore. Nothing seems to snap them out of their writers block. So eventually they turn to the bottle or drugs for the answers and they slowly break down, living a life of isolation and misunderstanding, eventually dying.
This sequence of events leads to an ending like “he died at such a young age, never fulfilling his whole potential. The poems he gave us serve as only a glimmer of what he could’ve accomplished. He had so much left to give to the poetry world.” in a poets autobiography section or introduction of a literature book or a collection of their poems.
My whole explanation of poetry and poets might sound like a poem. I have written so many ideas and thoughts on about this that it might all not make much sense any more. You started off reading this and it made sense, but know all the words and ideas are running together and you just want to stop reading all this. You want it all to be over. So I will now stop talking about poets and the animal they claim they control and understand: poetry.
I will become one with the grass and the weeds and the rain. And the next time you hear the rain, it is actually my fingernails tapping your bedroom window, telling you to get up and go to the bookstore on the corner. There is going to be poetry reading. And I would like you to bring some tea and crumpets. Then everybody can gather around the fireplace and read poetry.
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