*Note: the following post is my opinion, and you know the saying, “Opinions are like a**holes, everyone has one.” I know I will probably strike a nerve with this post, but please just remember that poetry is a personal preference. This is a humor blog and this post is meant to be just that.
I’m not fond poetry, but was subjected to it throughout my adolescent schooling, during my BA English courses, and also during my first semester for my Master’s. It was inevitable since, “it’s considered literature,” as I was so informed by my professors. My response? Pffft!
I mean, Emily Dickinson? Really? All you have to do it sing her poetry to the tune of Gilligan’s Island. Or better yet, The Yellow Rose of Texas. Yes, we actually learned that was possible and don’t think I couldn’t get that shit outta my head. Here, see for yourself:
If you were coming in the fall,
I’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
I’ll wait here while you sing that to the tunes I listed above. You’re welcome! And, by the way, what in the hell is Dickinson trying to convey? I mean, I guess she’s excited someone’s coming to visit in the fall that she’d shoo away the summer so fast, kind of like women shoo away a housefly. She happily do it to get to see whomever a lot quicker, but isn’t looking forward to missing the whole summer to do it. I mean, who would? She lived in Massachusetts and after fall comes winter. Winter in New England is a NO GO! I get it, but um, no. Doesn’t work in the romance department, Ms. Dickinson. FAIL.
Now, there is some poetry that I like, so I guess I can’t really say that I’m not fond of it. For example, I can get behind some Robert Frost and Edgar Allan Poe. But my favorite? Pablo Neruda. The Chilean Matador of non-rhyming poetry. I mean, there’s someone who is romantic. After I learned Freud’s psychoanalytic theory (the theory of symbolism, specifically in the sexual sense — something I used to apply to Dante’s Inferno in my final thesis), Neruda became even more awesome. Check it out:
Full woman, flesh-apple, hot moon,
thick smell of seaweed, mud and light in masquerade ,
what secret clarity opens through your columns?
What ancient night does a man touch with his sense?
Oh, love is a journey with water and stars,
and drowning air and storms of flour;
love is a clash of lightnings,
two bodies subdued by one honey.
Kiss by kiss I travel you little infinity,
your borders, your rivers, your tiny villages;
and a genital fire — transformed, delicious —
slips through the narrow roadways of the blood
till it pours itself, quick, like a night carnation, till it is:
and is nothing, in shadow, and a flimmer of light.
Um, yeah. Pablo is good. Again, you’re welcome!
Oh, and if you want, I can let you read my final thesis on Dante’s Inferno if you’re having trouble sleeping. It’s the ultimate cure for insomnia. I had to dry my keyboard several times while writing it. Little lines from the keyboard are forever etched into my forehead and the letters QWERTY can be seen. And, I woke myself up several times from snoring. So, there’s that.