Poetry — Is it all bad?

*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.

7 thoughts on “Poetry — Is it all bad?

  1. Bernie Dowling

    You seem like a nice bloke, but I would refuse you a Masters if you wrote a preface like the above to your Dante paper.
    The Surfer
    He thrust his joy against the weight of the sea;
    climbed through, slid under those long banks of
    (hawthorn hedges in spring, thorns in the face stinging).
    How his brown strength drove through the hollow and coil
    of green-through weirs of water!
    Muscle of arm thrust down long muscle of water;
    and swimming so, went out of sight
    where mortal, masterful, frail, the gulls went wheeling
    in air as he in water, with delight.

    Turn home, the sun goes down; swimmer, turn home.
    Last leaf of gold vanishes from the sea-curve.
    Take the big roller’s shoulder, speed and serve;
    come to the long beach home like a gull diving.

    For on the sand the grey-wolf sea lies, snarling,
    cold twilight wind splits the waves’ hair and shows
    the bones they worry in their wolf-teeth. O, wind blows
    and sea crouches on sand, fawning and mouthing;
    drops there and snatches again, drops and again snatches
    its broken toys, its whitened pebbles and shells.
    Judith Wright

    1. GK Adams Post author

      First of all, I’m not a ‘bloke’ and if you truly read this blog and thought I “seemed nice,” you would have figured that out.

      Second of all, when you are working on your Master’s degree, it’s not just a ‘paper.’ It’s a THESIS. HUGE DIFFERENCE!

      Third, this is a humor blog! Lighten up or you are more than free to move on out of here! Plain and simple.

  2. sylviaadams1946

    I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree…hell she comes by it honestly. I had to learn that damn poem while I was in school but that is all I can remember and I probably have it wrong. Who cares? I hate poetry too except for Edgar Allan Poe. His poetry I could understand and he gave me shivers and I loved that. Yes he was stoned out of his “ever-loving gourd” but even his poetry was good.

  3. K R Morrison

    I avoid poetry like the plague, except for Poe, Frost, ans Robert Louis Stevenson. I avoid romance novels too. Gurk! My thought is, “Just say what you mean and move on, fer the cry-eye!”

    I don’t need to read your thesis, dear, to get to sleep. All I have to do is go to my job. Data entry–yep, no problem getting in a nap there. About as exciting as watching paint peel. Got those QWERTY scars myself, and I’ve shorted out more keyboards than I can count. Meh, it’s a paycheck.


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