And I just realized, there is something similar in theme with hair waxing and this post's subject here: I like to keep my art tidy.
I Write Short Poems. (And That Wasn't a Poem Just Now.)
I can't abide long poems--and I always am fooled into thinking I have enjoyed a short one when I find out later it was an excerpt. And then I go to read the thing in full and yet again feel validated in my distaste for long poems. If you ask me what a long poem is, I wouldn't know what to tell you, by the way. I will say this: Wordsworth can suck it. And fun fact of the day: Wordsworth was born in Cockermouth, England. Hey-yo!
I know, I know--disliking something for it's size is so arbitrary and silly. I just don't like long-winded things is all. I get antsy and I feel as though the author is asking a lot of their readers if there isn't some sort of point to each and every word on the page outside of getting to the next phrase. I have yet to write a poem longer than a few stanzas because it's exhausting finding the words that really are just as important as all others. Maybe that's called laziness but I think it's also sparing the reader of wasteful reading.
I'm sounding more and more like a pissy English major who got a bad grade on her poetry submissions. I mean, I did start off with a grammar citation and then moved on to explaining why my way of writing is better than a man who is considered the founding father of an entire art movement.
But, I'll let you be the judge of that. I will say this in defense of my offense towards Mr. Wordymouth (as a friend of mine had recently reminded me of an intriguing story on this topic): not all of the "Greats" are as great to those of us Non-Greats. And not all the Great Works are perceptively Different from the rest of the submissions in the world. That may be because the way human societies work is that there is usually a hierarchy in everything, which in turn means that Great Art becomes an incredibly unreachable gated community--and those who have access to the keys are deluged beyond their ability to cope with all of the Not Great Art that comes through. But, I think it's also just taste and luck in who you're connected to. And God help you if you manage to be roommates with a future editor at the New Yorker during undergrad and it really would be a shame if those co-op party pictures got into the wrong hands.
Anyway. Poems. I write short ones. And since I don't foresee myself making a stellar living off of getting them published anytime soon, I figure I'll share a few of them--free for all eyes. Just, please, if you actually are one of the few people that like this poetry, it'd be nice if you gave me credit. Or didn't steal it, make it better, and then make lots of money off of it. (Or, if you do end up doing that, just don't tell me or publish it in a language I understand--my pride has already taken enough hits this lifetime, I don't need any more that I am aware of, thank you.)
To confirm, you can share these if you actually do like them. Just put my name on it and you're good to go. In fact, I've gone ahead and done that for you with these images.
Beryl (Copyright 1986)