|
12.03.2002
Poetry occupies an interesting
position among the arts. It's one of the very hardest to do well,
let alone to master; and yet, it's one of the most commonly practiced.
Many, many people seem to think that even though they can't draw,
dance, make sculptures, act, play an instrument, or even work
up a good whistle, they are perfectly capable of writing poetry
that someone might want to read and possibly might even enjoy.
To save a long screed on this topic, I'll say simply: these people
are wrong.
I am one of those people
who can't write good poetry, and probably the only difference
between me and the slam poseur and the aging and sensitive soul
with the lavender-scented journal is that I know I suck. However,
I admit to a certain fascination with fixed forms.
Fixed (sometimes called
traditional) forms of poetry -- such as tanka, cinquains, limericks,
shih, sonnets, and so on -- are those which have rigorous rules
about the form, meter, rhyme scheme, syllabic count, etc., they
may contain. And, by one of those odd coincidences that give
me fodder for daily log entries, they've been a recurring theme
in my life over the last few days. I spoke to my friend James
about them on the phone; I finished reading a book of contemporary
American poetry in fixed forms; and I read some rant from a guy
on a literature mailing list I'm on about how straightjacketed
you are when you use them. To which the only response is, well,
exactly! That's the whole point. And it's also the reason they
appeal to me -- they focus the mind sharply and make you much
more economical and precise about your use of language, which
generally makes for better writing. (This is the same reason
that formalism and structuralism are so appealing to me; they
strip considerations of context out of the creation of art, forcing
you into a rigid constraint where you're forced to be much more
careful about what you do. Not unexpectedly, this often has the
effect of making your writing more free rather than more limited.)
If you want to play a game where drawing a walk gets you to second
base, that's fine; I certainly won't tell you you can't. But
whatever you're playing, it ain't baseball.
You can also turn an otherwise
banal or lifeless bit of humor or observation into something
entertaining and funny with fixed forms; and they're uniquely
suited to pretty much any topic you want to graft into the structure.
Is all this theoretical vaporing just a cheap lead-in to some
cheeseball jokey poetry I wrote? You bet your fucking ass.
PORNOGRAPHIC CINQUAIN
Cum shot
Once chance; one take
Money; that is the term.
It sure costs me, if I blow it --
Too soon.
POLITICAL HAIKU
Winter brings cold death.
Who's that at the podium?
Henry Kissinger.
KUNG FU SHIH
The northern punch, the southern kick --
Or punch down south, and kick up north?
I always forget that rule;
I only remember -- "kick ass".
A LIMERICK ABOUT WINONA
RYDER'S RECENT LEGAL DIFFICULTIES
A waif with a purse full of pills
Blamed a film script on all of her ills.
But her technique was iffy;
She was caught in a jiffy.
She should have just polished her skills.
A CLERIHEW ANENT PROFESSIONAL
WRESTLING
Vincent (Junior) McMahon
Is enforcing a strict steroid ban.
His employees will soon become elfin
As he keeps all the juice for himselfin.
HOMELAND SECURITY TANKA
Cold, strong western winds
Meet hot eastern desert breeze.
They hate our freedom,
Or so the leaders tell us;
Better dump those freedoms.
INSTITUTIONALIZED PANTOUM
Weekend Paxil leaves me pasty
Thursday tranks, delivered hasty
Tuesday, Lithium, no warning
Friday's downers lie a-borning
Thursday tranks, delivered hasty
Electro-shock and feeling wastey
Friday's downers lie a-borning
Give me Prozac, I'm in mourning
Electro-shock and feeling wastey
Thorazine on Monday morning
Give me Prozac, I'm in mourning
Wednesday, Valium, sweet and tasty
Thorazine on Monday morning
Tuesday, Lithium, no warning
Wednesday, Valium, sweet and tasty
Weekend Paxil leaves me pasty.
|