the poet who doesn't read poetry
C is for CANDID, Confidans, and Competans.
Letting go of a medium that was your thing is a painful experience, but it comes with unexpected rewards.
I've done freeform poetry, haikus, tankas, and even songs.
But if my life depends on it. I could maybe name 5 other poetic forms:
Limericks.
Err, sonnets.
Do acrostics count?
End of list.
By now, you get the idea.
I just don't read enough of it.
I've used poetry as a "Hello my name is" sticker. Not sure what to call your little rant? Slap a poetry label on it.
Middle age seems like a good time to inventory my obsessions.
To give you an idea, if my top fixation lives at the peak of Mount Everest, poetry is still chilling at the bar before the base camp.
And that's ok.
Seriously.
I mean it.
For real.
Done right, poetry can conduct the cosmos.
Done wrong, it makes you want to poke your eyes with toothpicks.
It’s one of those binary things with nothing in-between.
Here is my official Dunning-Kruger test result on the topic:
However. After letting go. The reward came in the form of mental space.
With all that space now available, I accommodated my obsession with mini-stories. The results made me a happier, lighter, and faster writer.
Today, poetry feels like a 2010 memory on Facebook. A picture of me wearing baggy pants and a Dragon Ball Durag.
I look at it and smile, cringe, and feel silly. But the more I look at it, the more I feel indebted to that man for showing up, sucking hard, and still keeping at it.
A word-plumber. An unsung personal hero unclogging a lifetime of puffy adjectives, overly-complicated metaphors, and duck-taped juxtapositions using other people's causes.
Or do you think I didn't make poems about feminism and oppression?
I know.
Ta-da, for now, lil' wild poet.
I'll let you go with a good one from the only poet:
El Mr. Dr. Seuss:
Don’t Cry Because It’s Over; Smile Because It Happened.
See you on Monday!
Matias.
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