The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Quirks

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Normally, I love poetry.

It's a tough thing, trying to appeal to everyone. Impossible, really. You can't do it, given all the differences in influence, intelligence, background, values...so I don't try, and I don't blame anyone for not always seeing what I want them to. Who among us does not wish to be revered? Appreciated? We all do. If we didn't, we wouldn't be writing. The thing is, I've written before about how difficult it is to take a criticism from someone whom you are not convinced knows what they're talking about, but at the end of the day, do any of us really know what we're talking about? I mean, I sometimes review/comment on people's poetry on this site and I know that they might not think I actually have any clue about what they were trying to do with their words. It's not like I've been published. It's not like I have a following. My tastes are always changing, though admittedly I favour the work of feminine writers, but not exclusively. I also have two books of Bukowski poetry which I actually love to read, which surprises a lot of people, including myself. I go for strong female voices, usually, but not consciously. I'm not so much a feminist. I'm just a wannabe poet with a hankering for the pretty.

I don't appreciate love poetry that much, either. I try to write it, but it always feels forced and insincere, never worthy of the person I am writing it for. It comes off too glossy, saccharine, dripping with platitudes and I tend to cringe when I read it. The poems M. wrote for me when we first fell in love are still among the best love poems I've ever read, but that's because I was the inspiration, and if he'd written an impossibly nauseating rhyming piece of vomity nonsense, I'd still like it, for obvious reasons. If I were a person detached from the situation, I wonder what I'd think.

...Their meteor tails entwined
As the currents of space
Caress the glide...

That's all I'm going to share right now. But, looking at this one snippet with eyes which have not seen this particular poem in about six years, do I still think it's as brilliant as I used to? Kind of. And, I know it's because I love him, and because my ego makes it impossible for me to critique it fairly, and because I know he's had far more training in terms of poetry and its mechanics than I have which makes me think I'm not in a position to make disparaging remarks. I am biased. I am blinded by the shimmer of the words. What's more is that I believe in the love in them. Those days were truly euphoric.

I don't write like he does, but that's okay. I write like I do, and that's not always a bad thing. I sometimes find myself jealous of the ideas and eloquence of other people who write, wondering how they managed to come up with that particular sentence, or that specific image, knowing that none of it would have occurred to me the way it did to them. I can't even seem to emulate any of my favourites, because my words always come out the same way, as though there is some kind of invisible alter ego controlling my fingers, running the control board. Sometimes, I don't know what I've written until the last word is set. I find that strange.

My education has been slow when it comes to words. I never used to scrutinize song lyrics as much as I do now. I never used to get annoyed at the way other people wrote. Now, I do. Now, I get bothered when there is no effort, and worse yet, when there is no attempt to conceal the lack of effort. It's kind of an insult when you consider that they expect you to read it, and will get mad at you if you dare say something negative about it. It's offensive, like they're daring you to be bold enough to say 'hey, either you're really bad at this or you are not really trying', to which they react like wounded cats with thorns in their paws. I've been fortunate in that any kind of criticism I have given, which is rare but not unheard of, has usually been received by people with grace and understanding. I almost never comment on poems or stories which are so bad that I can't bear to finish them. When that happens, I figure the writer already knows they're garbage. It would be impossible for them not to. Even me, with my novice eye, can spot the truly heinous stuff. I think most people could.

I try to think about poetry when I'm in the bathtub. It seems like the best place for it, to me, anyway. I tried it today, as a matter of fact, in a steaming tub of water with lavender oil and waves of gentle quiet. I submerged, I let myself relax, and I picked up a book of poems that I love, hoping for inspiration by way of osmosis. Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not, and today, it did not. I was too hot for concentration, and it was the middle of the day which made me feel sort of guilty. I read two poems before resting the book on the side of the tub and pulling my arms under the water so that only my head was exposed. At that point, any hope of intelligent thought was lost. I was sitting in lavender brain stew. It smelled delicious, and it made me sleepy.

What I know for sure is that I hate most rhyming poetry, mostly because it almost always feels forced, like the wrong words were put into place by virtue of cadence and similar sounds. I do not like poetry in which the writer is attempting to write as though they are living in another country, in a different era because they don't, and therefore, do not have an audience for it either. I don't like the deliberately difficult or obscure poetry in which the intent is hidden under flowery words or phrases. I don't like poetry that doesn't have any kind of philosophy, beauty or observations in it. In short, I don't care much for tired, old formula, but I'm sure there might be exceptions.

I do like poetry in which something simple is rediscovered by a keen eye. I like words that work well with others. I like grit as much as I like petals. Sometimes, I like gritty petals. I like ideas, feelings, colours and varying textures. I like audaciousness and demureness. I like individuality and stretching. The poems I read are the ones in which I see my own perceptions through the words of another, perceptions I never had my own words for. They find a way to say it for me, and I will nod my head with a smile and think 'yeah, that's exactly it!'.

And most of the time, it is.