These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
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First there's the rhyme. Its onset is early – perhaps encouraged by the books that say poetry is "a gift of watermelon pickle" or something like that. Inspired, we write lyrics to the rain, how raindrops are blue, and clouds are grey, and I love you God and now I'll go play!
That ends with puberty, thank heavens, though puberty has its own drawbacks. Namely: Jim Morrison and Sylvia Plath. Where else would all those feelings go if not in verse? Without poetry where would we put our suicides, our lost loves, our tragic family lives and why we hate out parents? We'd fall. We'd be like small Satans and fall to our recreational chemical experiments, burning.
Fortunately, college intervenes (for those of us who are lucky enough to go on to college – most do – we are, after all, talking about the garden-variety, white-middle-class poet) and we receive new life. We write, not about suicide and smelly teen spirit, but about ISSUES. And DEATH. And DEEP THOUGHTS. And SEX. And everything refers to some other poet Or Has A Funny shape Or is strikingly original Or has the word F#@! in it.
Some people manage to skip this, though, and go straight to coffeehouses. That's called slam poetry. It's less pretentious because it yells at more people and uses the word F#@! a lot more.
