It’s Writer’s Workshop time (go to Mama’s Losin’ It and see) and I’ve got diddly-squat. Nothin’. Nada. Zilch. Zip. None of the prompts spoke to me this week. I can’t tell you about my significant other’s best quality because I don’t have a significant other (I don’t think Sundance counts). I’ve never stolen anything (and if I had, I probably wouldn’t tell anyone about it). And I don’t recall any scary encounters with any of my professors (encounters where I wanted to kick a few in the shins maybe, but not scary ones). The last prompt is about poetry… take the last line of your favorite poem and make it the first line of a new poem. Right.
Here’s the thing. I suck at poetry. Instead of waxing poetic, I wax pathetic. My poems sound like a 3rd grader wrote them. A 3rd grader who rides the short bus. I can’t really even read poetry. Well, I can’t read a lot of poetry. Most of it makes me feel stupid because I just don’t get it. See, I don’t want to have to break down each line to find some hidden meaning. That just takes too much energy. I want the meaning to sort of slap me upside the head. I want to read it and just know.
Now, having said all that, I’ve read some poetry lately that I’ve loved… J. Cosmo Newbery, for example, is an amazing poet… sometimes funny, sometimes poignant, always wonderful. And I actually get his stuff (most of it, anyway). He tends to keep his lines short and he likes to rhyme… I think that makes it easier for me to keep up. And Sometimes Sophia has done this fantastic series on the little field mice who keep taking up winter residence in her house… they’re brilliant (the poems, not the mice). And StuPidasso and justsomethoughts are two of my favorite bloggers who write really good stuff (and I usually understand their poems, too).
I wish I could do it. I do. Not being able to write or read poetry makes me feel inadequate… unintelligent… unsophisticated. I keep hoping I’ll acquire a taste for it or learn enough to understand it without having to try so hard. It’s very much like how I used to feel about wine. You know how some people are beer people and some are wine people? Well, I’ve always been a beer person but I always wanted to be a wine person… they seemed so sophisticated to me and I was (am) so… well… not sophisticated. And it all tasted icky. Then I had the good fortune to visit my cousin in England – my cousin who owns a fabulous restaurant and has a stocked-to-the-rafters wine cellar; my cousin who has never seen an empty glass; my cousin who knows a lot about booze in general and wine specifically; my cousin who loves to see me drunk. He gave me wine lessons and I soaked them up (literally). I found out what I liked and didn’t like… and I stopped buying wine just because the bottle was pretty. Now I’m a wine drinker. Yeah, I’m still a beer drinker, too (nothing beats a pint, or several, in an old pub!), as there’s room for both in my life (and the occasional tequila shot, too).
So anyway, that’s what I’m hoping will happen with poetry. Hey… something just occurred to me. Maybe if I try my hand at poetry while I’m drinking wine… hmmmm… I might be onto something there. Boozy writing could work for me! It did for Hemingway, right? I can see it now… The Merlot Diaries… I might even have to change the name of my blog. Now, where’s that corkscrew?
PS… Sorry Kathy. I failed miserably at this week’s assignment. Sigh. If you’d just included a prompt about wine (or beer… or tequila), I would’ve gotten an A+!