acid under the bandaid
Before I begin, let me first explain that this post is not a rant. Nor is it a cry for esteem boosting comments. In fact, I'm not quite sure what it is. Maybe it's a declaration (of sorts). Or maybe it is me just trying to dig a little deeper. Hopefully you (and I) will figure something out by the time I am done saying whatever I need to say.
Today I met with my wonderful poetry professor, Dr. T. I had questions about the poems I had workshopped (you know, about how to make them better and such). Two hours later he had ripped every. single. word. apart. And I have never been more grateful.
No one has ever told me that my poetry is over-poetic. Yes, I've been told by many that my poems are hard to understand. But no one has told me why. And today I found out. They are too abstract, confusing, illogical, and above all overdone. Some are archaic, unidiomatic, heavy, and over emotional. Many are too general or are written for too pointed of an audience. In either case, no one cares (unless of course, you happen to be related to me or love me for some other reason). No one wants to read about me being happy or angry or tired or frustrated because it has nothing to do with themselves. Instead, they (meaning you) want to come away not with my emotions, but an emotion of their (your) own. If my poetry is just throwing sadness in your face, it isn't going to be compelling or thought provoking in any manner. And what good does that do?
Something else I learned today: I use my poems to explore merely the surface of ideas, but more often than not, they don't ever go anywhere. They are static, unchanging from beginning to end. Sure the words may move across the page, but they don't do much more than describe the beginning thoughts of an idea. In short, I need to think more deeply. I need to search thoughts out, figuring out all of the possible connections that my words have with each other.
It's rather a tall order, but I think I'll ask the waiter to see if this place carries deep-dished thoughts along with simple carbs (none of that drippy stuff for me!). And while the chef works in the kitchen, I'll do my best not to waste my time. Instead, I'll scribble on the napkins and the menus, the place mats and plates and saucers and bowls. I will write until there is no where left to write nor words left to say the things I know I can (and should) say.
And, as expected, I am currently furiously writing. I have two poems due at midnight - hopefully they are better than my last ones.
P.S. Dr. T. actually really liked one of my phrases. According to him, "drops of night" is a pretty awesome image, especially since it is one that he (nor Google) have ever come across before. I suppose you could say that it was one redeeming minute out of 120.
Today I met with my wonderful poetry professor, Dr. T. I had questions about the poems I had workshopped (you know, about how to make them better and such). Two hours later he had ripped every. single. word. apart. And I have never been more grateful.
No one has ever told me that my poetry is over-poetic. Yes, I've been told by many that my poems are hard to understand. But no one has told me why. And today I found out. They are too abstract, confusing, illogical, and above all overdone. Some are archaic, unidiomatic, heavy, and over emotional. Many are too general or are written for too pointed of an audience. In either case, no one cares (unless of course, you happen to be related to me or love me for some other reason). No one wants to read about me being happy or angry or tired or frustrated because it has nothing to do with themselves. Instead, they (meaning you) want to come away not with my emotions, but an emotion of their (your) own. If my poetry is just throwing sadness in your face, it isn't going to be compelling or thought provoking in any manner. And what good does that do?
Something else I learned today: I use my poems to explore merely the surface of ideas, but more often than not, they don't ever go anywhere. They are static, unchanging from beginning to end. Sure the words may move across the page, but they don't do much more than describe the beginning thoughts of an idea. In short, I need to think more deeply. I need to search thoughts out, figuring out all of the possible connections that my words have with each other.
It's rather a tall order, but I think I'll ask the waiter to see if this place carries deep-dished thoughts along with simple carbs (none of that drippy stuff for me!). And while the chef works in the kitchen, I'll do my best not to waste my time. Instead, I'll scribble on the napkins and the menus, the place mats and plates and saucers and bowls. I will write until there is no where left to write nor words left to say the things I know I can (and should) say.
And, as expected, I am currently furiously writing. I have two poems due at midnight - hopefully they are better than my last ones.
P.S. Dr. T. actually really liked one of my phrases. According to him, "drops of night" is a pretty awesome image, especially since it is one that he (nor Google) have ever come across before. I suppose you could say that it was one redeeming minute out of 120.
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