This Is Not Poetry

As much as I appreciate any comments (at all) on the things I post on my scribbles blog, I'm really perplexed when people call them poems.

These are all poems.

(And my most recent obsession is with Wu Tsao, the only classical (Ching Dynasty) Chinese 'lesbian' poet I know of, though I'm wary about calling her a lesbian poet; I prefer to think of her as a woman poet.)

What I write isn't poetry. They are scribbles; sometimes, they are scribbles that come with their own tunes (which I'll write down as soon as I can get my hands on a keyboard and blank music manuscript sheets), and these days they even rhyme (albeit as trite as rhymes come) - but they are not poetry.

I'd given up on my poetic aspirations the day I found out I'd been rejected for the two-hundred level poetry workshop. I never told anybody (mainly because I was too embarrassed and too ashamed to), but a part of me had been severely and irreparably crushed.

The application required me to include some writing samples, and, although I've always called what I write scribbles, I'd thought maybe they were good enough for me to send in with my application for a poetry workshop - and maybe even get me a place in it.

But I'd thought wrong: they weren't.

Then, I'd felt so rejected on so many levels I didn't dare scribble for two whole months. Getting rejected is always painful, especially when it bespeaks the inadequacies of your person.

I'm getting back into scribbling these days, but the Moon's gotta be in the right sign and in a particular phase, and the planets must all be in alignment in certain houses, yadda yadda ... and all that silly shit. It's only very recently that I've decided to try my hand at songwriting (which is why I've called a couple of my scribbles waltzes), but, as with villanelles and sonnets and all other poetic forms, I failed. Very badly. (And I'm in all the more awe of E's songwriting now.)

It's best not to force it if something just isn't meant to be, but I find it sort of fun. As long as no serious songwriters, poets, and literary critics read them, I'll be safe from any and total humiliation.

Not that I'm extremely ashamed of, and reject, what I scribble. It's sort of like how a mother would (and should) not love her children any less just because they didn't grow up to be what she'd wanted them to be, or because they weren't beautiful enough or smart enough - it's just not done.

I'll never call my scribbles poetry because I don't in fact know how to write poetry - I've never read any how-to guides, nor have I ever been taught. If I called what I scribbled 'poetry', then I'd be the William Hung of poetry.

Dryden immortalized Thomas Shadwell in the (very wicked, very funny) poem Mac Flecknoe as the epitome of dullness, leaving Shadwell frozen in a great block of ignominy - for posterity. To be known as the William Hung of poetry would be almost as terrible.

I'm prepared to defend my scribbles (though not too vehemently because even I myself cringe at what I've scribbled sometimes), and I like (most of) them, which, I think, is sufficient.

I do envy people who aren't shy about calling their works poetry though, and those who, even untrained, write completely compelling and beautiful poems.

But then, que sera sera - what will be, will be. And whatever won't, never will.



Somehow, I feel so much better having written that all down.