I’m a Bad #Poet

Power of WordsOh, man….I must confess.  I am a bad poet.  I blast through poems and if they don’t touch something in me, I often don’t give it a second shot.  I feast, I gorge, I gobble.  I am an impatient reader of poems, and that includes my own.  If I can’t find a resonance, if I can’t find a pulse, I discard it.

While I do put some work into the look of a poem I’m writing, I am far more concerned with the senses.  Does it sound how I need it to sound?  Am I drawing on a personal lexicon, and am I letting readers into that world?  Am I too much in my mind?  Am I overusing lines, words, and images?  This matters much more to me than form – as long as it vaguely resembles That Which We Call Poem, I’m satisfied.

I also like discussing poems, and love to dive into a close reading.  But I can’t be bothered with meter – my eyes glaze over.  I generally don’t care about line breaks, enjambment, typography, and so on.  It’s not a priority.

If I can’t feel a poem, if I can’t register anything on any of my senses, it just doesn’t impress me.  I move through a poem like a dream – I’m on my own logic, I have my own imperatives, unclear to everyone and myself.  I read them like a hedge witch – watching the borders carefully, looking for ancient signs and symbols.  I cannot handle the pat, the worldly, the dry poems that impress others.

I will treasure a poem even if it doesn’t “make sense”.  I will treasure a poem if my personal meaning for it doesn’t match the author’s intent.  I will treasure a poem if it sounds like a magical incantation and reminds me that there is red blood flowing under the callus of daily life.

I am a bad poet.  And I love it.

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