I'm really not a big fan of writing poetry, because I write shit poetry, and blind, bed ridden emo children in third world countries can write better poetry than me. I'm not joking. I write shit poetry. I just don't have the mindset for it--I can't get the beats or rhythm right and, truthfully, I can't get all that excited about actually writing it. I don't have anything against reading poetry, mind. I quite like Charles Bukowski's free verse spat out things, and Raymond Carver's more measured poems (one which references Bukowski, in fact). I can still go me a bit of Emily Dickenson, and a bit of Dylan Thomas, and some of Michael Ondaatje's poems are real nice... but it doesn't matter how much of it I enjoy, how I can see a nice fall of lines, or even a nice turn of phrase, I just can't get excited to write it myself. I've tried. Honest. I've tried and I've even sold poems. In fact, one of the first pieces I sold to an overseas market was a poem that ripped off Neil Gaiman, quite tragically. I even sold a couple more, though none, thankfully, ever saw print, and my realisation that I was a shit poet stopped me from doing more. In fact, my poetry aspirations now are for nothing but educational purposes, as most bad poetry is.
Indeed, last weekend, I found myself writing poetry for such a reason and, for your amusement, here it is:
Please Insert Girl's Name
There is this girl
I see her twice
In the morning:
She stands in a blue jacket and blue skirt,
and white shirt, crumpled
failed in its pristine perfection
(also the emotion).
In the evening:
I see her sitting outside in slippery silk,
Red, ready, reading,
(she waits for)
shiny silvered cars to arrive
Awful, isn't it?
I had some help writing it, but still, I have to take blame for the stupidity of it, and that odd usage of brackets in the fourth stanza. What was I thinking there? Really, I have no idea. I even considered taking them out when I posted it here, but lets face facts: the poem will still be shit, even if I completely rewrite it, and the truth is, I simply don't have the inclination or time to do that.
Of course, none of this really explains why the poem is about a teenage prostitute. Really, I have no way to explain it, either. It's probably best if you just don't ask, I imagine.