There once was a man from Nantucket . . .

No one reads poetry anymore (dude sitting in the Barnes & Nobel cafe with your $5 latte, peeking over the edge of the book of poems you don’t fully comprehend to see who is gazing in awe at your intellectual superiority – I’m not talking to you).  There are people who are voracious readers who couldn’t tell you the last time they read a poem that wasn’t engraved on a greeting card.  I’m not judging.  Hell, I don’t read that much poetry, either.  I just think it’s a shame and I wonder what was the cause. 

One reason may be that some poetry can’t be completely understood just reading it once.  Some poems have to be mulled over and digested to fully appreciate.  Who has that kind of time?  People usually read for an escape from reality, not as a reminder of what high school English homework was like.  There are poets out there that do write instantly enjoyable poems that even prose-only readers can appreciate.  One that comes to mind (and that most have heard of) is Shel Silverstein.  Yes, they are technically children’s poems, but they are intelligently written and can appeal to an adult sense of humor as well.  I know that there are more, and I would like to find them.  

And, so you can say you read a poem today, here’s one from me: 

The End of the Dog

I am a flea
who’s dog has died,
left without a
home or hide. 

My family and I
need a new habitation.
Closing upon us is
the threat of extinction. 

In the few moments
on the dog remaining,
I can’t help but
spend time remembering . . . 

Evacuation drills
for the “Big Dip,”
all the scenic views
from his tail’s tip. 

My favorite spots
to sit and chew,
mom’s secret recipe
for Dog’s Hair Stew.

Now it is time
to pack up and go,
exits are to the rear
and down by the nose. 

As we leave, I
look back one last time,
but fresh meat awaits
leave the dead dog behind. 

Search we must for
a new host to bite.
No one said it was easy
being a parasite.

 

Vampire Kittens

While unpacking a box of books the other day, I came across a few notebooks of poetry and stories that I wrote when I was in middle and high school.  It was fun reading through my old words and remembering the days when they were written.  However, I realized that if anyone else read some of these things, they might be concerned for my state of mind back then.  Oh, of course there were teen angst musings about unrequited love and how no one understood what I was going through – you know, the typical woe is me type stuff.  But, there were also bunches of poems about darkness, night, corruption and monsters.  I wrote stories about vampires with detailed descriptions of their feasts on the living.  One poem was about the devil and how he would come for us all.  Many of these writings have never been read by anyone but me.  Good thing too, cause they may start hiding their knives whenever I come over.  Others probably wouldn’t understand where all my black thoughts were coming from. 

I wasn’t a depressed child, really.  My default setting then, as now, is happy.  Of course, I had my down days, but they weren’t the norm.  I had posters of puppies and ponies and my bed linens were covered in flowers.  I had a freakin’ rainbow painted on my wall.  I did go through a phase where I wore black a lot, but I didn’t go full out goth with black eyeliner and lipstick, too.  When I think about it, there wasn’t any real pre-meditation to the black clothing.  I just liked it.  And, having the stout, farm-girl physique that I do, black still is my friend.  I wrote my vampire stories and death poems on my flowered sheets for one simple reason: I have a dark side.  I love horror movies, true-crime stories about serial killers and Halloween.  In middle school I started reading Stephen King novels and watched Salem’s Lot on TV while I was home alone.  In high school I continued to read King, along with Clive Barker, Dean Koontz and Anne Rice.  I wrote my senior political science paper on the Charles Manson murders because I was already reading “Helter Skelter” by Vincent Bugliosi for fun.  I think I was a vampire for Halloween three years in a row.  I developed a morbid, sometimes sick, sense of humor.  However, a lot of people who signed my high school yearbook wrote that I was a funny, free-spirit who always made them laugh. 

And today, I’m still a happy, fun-loving gal who loves a good scare.  I also love watching good comedies and laughing until my sides hurt.  I may make a joke about biting a kitten’s head off, but I wouldn’t do it to save my life.  I love kittens.  I think that embracing my dark, blood-soaked side and my soft, kitten loving side makes me a whole person.  I wouldn’t be me without one or the other.

Choices

Sunflowers hung
seed riddled faces
dignity of bent stalks
brittle giants
bow to the sky

I created the above poem as an entry in the Poetry In Motion contest on Poetry.com. The contest requires you to choose from pre-selected words to create your entry (much like those magnetic poetry kits you can by in bookstores). I find that contest (like the kits) are useful in focusing creativity. You only have to worry about the words that are given to you. All the other words in the english language don’t matter. Even if you know of another word that would be more appropriate, you can’t use it. It’s a forced creativity, but the parameters can be comforting.

When I go to a restaurant and the menu has pages and pages of options, I can’t make a decision. Being presented with so many potential choices renders me indecisive. I freeze. “Take everyone else’s order first, I’m not ready.” But, when there is only one column of items to pick from, it makes it easier to order something I can be certain I will enjoy.

For me, it is a perfectionism issue. I want to use the most perfect word possible, much like I want to order the most delicious item on the menu. I know that the reader doesn’t care if I use “tacit” or “unspoken” because if I’m telling the story effectively, it shouldn’t matter. And I am relatively certain that I would find the cheeseburger just as satisfying as the shrimp linguine.