A blog about whatever randomosity my fevered mind conceives.

An unwilling affair with poetry…

Considering how much of it I’ve written in my lifetime, it sounds a little strange to hear myself say, “I hate poetry”. But guess what? I’ve recently decided that I kind of hate poetry.

Wait… don’t get me wrong; there are hordes of poems that I enjoy from a great many different poets… I just hate my poetry. And here’s why; it flows out so easily, so naturally and so often that over the years it has amounted to one enormous mountain of words, and yet, out of all of it, there are maybe {if I’m lucky} two or three that are actually any good. The rest are just… hmm… words and emotions set to pedestrian rhythm and {often} rhyme. It’s basically like I’ve kept a journal of my life in verse.

Surely, that doesn’t sound like such a terrible thing, but here’s what chaps my ass about it; poems that insist on being birthed often steal away time and attention from the things in life that I feel I should be doing. I should be working to sharpen and improve my writing skills, and I should be working on my novel and/or other projects that I’ve assigned importance to.

But… as I sit in front of the computer screen, a thought occurs to me… some random little tidbit… and the next thing I know, there’s yet another bloody poem spilling out of me.

If only I could pin down a little focus, I might be able to control what I create.

Of course, it really isn’t all bad. The nice thing about having such an immense body of poetry is that I can look back over it and see the different stages of mutation in my life. I am nothing if not persistently organized when it comes to my writing; the good, the bad and the disturbingly ugly; so every word that I have ever written can be brought easily into view. Even those angst-ridden teenage years have been carefully archived so that, should I choose, I can return to those desperate moments in time to reconnect with the person I once was. I kid you not; things I once scribbled frantically on café napkins have been committed, over the years, to my personal library.

And the poetry is different than other bodies of writing that I’ve created. It is different in the fact that when I write a story and set it aside for a long period of time, I can often forget the finer points of the tale, but I never forget the poems. Not truly. More honest than photographs, they have captured fragments of my soul. Now, as bad as some of the oldest stuff is; and trust me, it is often deplorable; it is nice to be able to look back at the raging mess of a person I once was, if only to gain greater appreciation of the much saner, much happier person that I am evolving to be.

The only real issue is that I do not now, nor have I ever had any desire to be a poet. I have zero interest in studying to become a better poet, and I have even less interest in ever attempting to have any of it published. This is where the dilemma arises. This constant compulsion to write poem after bloody poem, is not at all conducive to reaching any of my goals in life, thus, it often feels like a complete waste of time.

Of course, writing a long-winded blog post about how I feel writing poetry is a frittering away of my time could be construed as redundant in and of itself.

Oh well, what’s a girl to do?

Likely the poetry will never be silenced. It is obviously something that is within me, and wants to get out. And I; ever a slave to the both my mind and to the written word; will likely someday die, buried in an avalanche of mediocre musings.

At any rate…

… good or bad, right or wrong, understandable or completely incomprehensible… thanks for stopping by my own private universe.

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3 responses

  1. Pingback: Poetry and Life Inspired Writing « creativityorcrazy

  2. Pingback: A day in the life… « My Own Private Universe

  3. Pingback: Girls Who Read | anniegirl1138

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