The Worse Poet in the World
so it appears this is the only way to describe myself. I feel so out-of-place in the poetry world, but I love writing.
Poetry readings are often tortured for me. Yes there are the poets that drone on about being robots and the universe swallowing them, and it becomes incomprehensible. Ones that laugh at their own work, or explain every technique they ventured to try, and I listen politely and wonder do they know that if they have to explain it, it probably wasn’t done well? After all, the assumption is everyone in the room has a working knowledge of poetry therefore can pick up allusion, alliteration, and even assonance-should one dare.
Is it that, as the worse poet in the world, I do not recognize how hard these people toll? Have I become elitist? Can you be elitist when no one knows who you are?
But yet I know I like some work. I will hear a poem and say, damn that snake charmer poem was completely on target, or understand a person like a new language, way to work that metaphor sister! So is it my taste is off, and out of touch with poetry in general? I mean I do like people who take chances. I love poets that infuse their ordinary moments into poetry and make me see them in a way that may have missed me in the past. When I hear writers talking about butterflies and gardens and there is no powerhouse pulsing beneath it, I get yawny (yeah I made up that word. . .let’s try it other writers. new words for every one. Cancerish, floorable, corkal. it’s fun)
Maybe the horrible truth is I am the worse poet in the world, because I am awkward. I simply feel uncomfortable in a room full or strangers, even when I know them.