#poem #prose Reading Poetry I’d just finished reading a website about how to cook bugs for food if you’re a starving writer. It seems insects are high in protein, but none of the recipes looked very good. I then decided to whet my appetite on WritersMarket, looking for tips on getting published, where to send my literary masterpieces, etc. The first article I read was about reading other poetry, meaning poetry which I hadn’t written. This, while sometimes a regrettable idea, was timely. I had a recent conversation on the topic. I’d told the other mystery person that I didn’t like reading other poetry, that it made me break out in painful, puss-filled boils, that my eyes would bleed, and that I heard tortured voices, new ones, the shouts and yowls of pointy-beard bards, echoing in my head when I read poetry. I’d told her I could feel myself becoming sterile. I’d hear popping sounds, and I’d sometimes see and smell sweet-scented blown-head-gasket smoke seeping out the holes in my shorts when I read poetry. This is largely true, with an exception that I’ll get to in due time. Be patient. I’ve read, or tried to read, Poe. Though, I tried that too late at night and didn’t have a baseball bat handy to beat the ghouls so that creepy bastard is still on the list to revisit, during daylight. I know I should expand my horizons, and I feel like an idiot when the names come up and I’m not conversational on their work. I’ve tried to read Hemingway, and Whitman, and Ginsberg, and others. Each had some interesting aspects, but none were for me. I wondered if time had judged the best writers by how many words they needed to explain a simple idea-- the more the better it seems. Though, each is famous for a reason. Their style touched someone. Their words lived on in some hearts. I’ve tried to read Bukowski, and probably had the most success with that. He’s a way of saying things without saying them, and beating you over the head with it days later when you realize what he’s done. He was a crude, irreverent fellow too. Extra points for that. The true exception, though, is the poetry written by those I know, and by the underdogs, sometimes one and the same. I find myself cherishing the thoughts, sifting through the rubble of words to see what trembling, still-living emotions lie beneath. I feel pride, silly as it seems, when they knock one out of the park, even if very few will see. There was a fellow on my blog feed who was able to crank out a poem every few minutes. Each was different than the last. Each took me somewhere new. He didn’t write like the masters. It was almost a free-flow of thought with a kick in the shin at the end, and he made me enjoy being kicked. I looked for him again the other day. He was gone.
Posted on: Thu, 07 Aug 2014 22:10:56 +0000
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