My Poetry Woes

 

When I signed up for graduate courses at Rowan University I struggled to decide which writing courses I really wanted to concentrate on. I mused over the value of rhetoric and toyed with idea of fiction writing. There were plenty of options to take and more than a few I knew I was going to invest my time and effort into. Out of the entire courses available in Rowan’s Writing Arts program, I knew 100% that I would never, ever in a million gazillion years take the poetry course.

 

Oh sure, I can appreciate reading poetry. Of course I can. Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Wilde were all pounded into my brain as an adolescent, with only minimal resentment pouring into adulthood. I can dance to the tune of Donne and agree that Death should not be proud. I can dream during the day and have Lawrence fear my danger and I can listen to Blake’s Songs of Innocence with the patience of a saint. But dear Lord in heaven above, help me prevail from the merest suggestion that I actually WRITE poetry.

I ask myself, is it necessarily true that a writer should be able to master all facets of their craft? Or must we all be specialists, dabbling here and there but dedicating the majority of our wit and effort to the creation of something we actually enjoy and have faith in? As I plod along through these graduate courses, I keep coming across a pleasant surprise every now and then. I learn a new trick, shed a bad habit, but one thing holds true: I suck at writing poetry.<Flash back to Wednesday, February 20th, 2008.>

A cold bitter day, I finish up work and make my way, unsuspecting, to Dr. Penrod’s Core II class. We chat a while, the class getting comfortable as discussion over that week’s literature commences. Half way through our designated 3 hours, the bomb is dropped. I have to write poetry.

I recall it oh so clearly, as though it was only yesterday. When those dreaded words leapt from Diane Penrod’s mouth I froze in shock, horror and the dreadful realization that my worst nightmare was about to come true. Poetry was to be created – and not just any old crap, but a compilation of poems derived from a 20 minute interview I gave to another student, Amanda. That poor woman will be the focus of my poetic license. I’ll try to do her justice, but so far I have nothing to show for wading into the sea poetry but an ocean of crumpled up paper around my bed. Diane Penrod – why do you hate me? Poetry – don’t you know that we should appreciate each other from afar but never should we meet?

It’s 2:15AM and all I have to show for my poetry marathon is this…

“I hate poetry.

Yes, indeed, I do.

I hate poetry.

How about you?”

  

I shall hang my head in shame and doff my writing cap. I’m hanging up my writing gloves, because my fight with poetry is over. Poetry won.