Thursday, February 24, 2005

So my poetry teacher wanted me to write a poem that had perfect meter and rhyme scheme. She wanted to fetter me. She wanted to hem me in and teach me the merits of nitpicking every dactyl, homophone, and stanzic variation. This is what I came up with . . .

What sophistry is this, that must define
The insubstantial details of a verse?
I loathe the fools who scrutinize each line
For ev'ry iamb's consequence, and worse -
They strive to grasp the nature of a dream
By pondering the poet's rhyming scheme.

I cringe before their frail analyses,
And shake my head in shame as once again
The forest weeps, neglected for the trees
That sprouted not from any poet's pen.
They feast on meter butchered by the knife
Of one who could not write to save his life.

Oh gentle reader, pause and hear my words:
No formula could ever capture art.
A poem, reduced begins to seem absurd -
A mere assemblage of its mangled parts!
Its meaning must be measured by the soul,
Appreciated swiftly as a whole.

And when you write, forget the patterned scraps
Enforced upon you by instructive texts.
Avoid the vapid parlor-poet trap
By scribbling something certain to perplex
Devise a verse like nothing ever heard,
For isn't that the point of written word?

I'm such a fuckin' wise ass. That grad student won't know what hit her.

shiny objects