Why hate poetry?
Poetry’s the marmite of literature. A divisive subject with one side of the scale, I unhappily admit, heavily tipped. I think it’s safe to say that most people hate poetry, an awful thing to hear if like me, you love it.
Why all the hate?
Maybe because poetry’s seen as moth-eaten and archaic, to be shelved alongside cobblestone heavy history books. A sloth-like slow drag lacking in thrill and pace. Or maybe, it’s because people think poetry equates effort. A poem is evidence of someone having made an effort to try and be clever. To unashamedly try to make something beautiful. It follows then that reading a poem can make you feel closed off, feel dumb when you don’t understand, even after all the eye-scrunching effort trying to untangle all the pretentious bits of fluff.
Gosh, this is a bit negative on National Poetry Day isn’t it? But this is exactly the reason why I love this annual celebration. Ever since primary school when I shoved bunglingly written acrostic poems into my parents’ faces, I’ve loved the idea of getting everyone EXCITED ABOUT POETRY. Making poetry for and about everyone. As it should be. Because poetry isn’t about condescending cleverness. It’s about voices and people. When you think about it, it’s insight into someone else’s life and mind. A permission slip to be a fly on the wall.
On this October 1st, our National Poetry Day in the UK, people all over the country are getting excited about poetry and they’re not embarrassed to admit it. From writing poetry to putting on events, poetry-lovers are coming out of the woodwork and shouting from the rooftops. You can find out more about what it’s all about here: https://nationalpoetryday.co.uk/celebrate-national-poetry-day/.
I’d love you to join in too.
Why not write your own poem in response to this year’s theme of VISION in the comments below?
Write, post, respond and share!
Let’s show all poetry sceptics wrong, show them that poetry doesn’t drag, it bumbles, meanders, hops and dives. It doesn’t close people off, it makes us more open. Poetry helps us understand the world and people around us, giving us the language to explain our own patchwork of feelings and thoughts. Letting us know that we’re not the only ones and that someone else gets it, gets us.
I’ve kick-started our poetry thread with my own response to this year’s theme, my poetry has improved a tad since my acrostic days, but my enthusiasm has remained child-like in magnitude.
Looking forward to reading your responses!
Miriam x
We’re 2/20
My vision’s a total mess,
2/20,
Smudges and stumbling edges.
I can’t see further than my nose
and its kissed pink bridge.
From my easy balloon
I drift,
Sideways
Loosening sacks of sense.
I spot your smudge in all the smudges,
Your 4B trace, your guiding stroke.
Your blur is crisp and clear to me,
As your balloon
bops
gently
mine.
HIS VISION
‘I do not understand,’ I said. He sighed,
Shattered his argument so tightly wrought
And delicate, with arches high of crystal thought
And soaring pinnacles of ice, and tried
Again; and built a singing span of steel-
Bright reasons, geometrically sound
And sane, that vaulted over solid ground
Of fact. Still stubborn I, ‘I do not feel
That’s true.’ In desperation then he slapped
Together brick and mortar words, though apt.
‘Now do you see?’ I, at mutiny adept,
Said ‘No.’ Defeated then he said no more
But ruefully he smiled; and as the smile crept
To his eyes and to my heart – Ah, then I saw!
Jaye- this is wonderful! Thank you so much for posting, this really blew me away. A smile can be the deepest form of talking and understanding, even us poets have to admit sometimes that words aren’t always enough!
Thanks so much Miriam. Glad you liked it
Peeking
You always used to cheat at hide and seek,
peek between your fingers, count in tens.
I’d scuttle up the stairs, avoid the creak
on the third step, under the bed and then
I’d wait, not giggling, stifling a cough,
not breathing even, wait to see your feet.
You’d bounce upon the bed to squash me, laugh,
then drag me by the ankles from beneath.
We haven’t played that game in many years.
You hid from me, I never thought to peek.
I’d peek now, but I can’t see for the tears.
I’m counting now, in years, I’ll find you soon.
This is our final game of hide and seek.
You have but slipped into another room.
Thank you so much for sharing this beautiful poem, the delicate details of the stair’s creak and excited anticipation are lovely. The shift from childhood fun to the sense of loss really got me, I guess we all just slip in and out of each other’s lives…
Thank you Miriam.
I’ll not write for you another crass poem
Yet shall I explain it all the same
Why poetry has me so unexcited
That so much, dare I say, is so lame
When neither rhyme no rythm can be found
A rant called poem is for sure to blame
😂
Haha thanks for this one Rick, brought a smile to my face! Have you never found a poem you’ve fallen in love with?
I’ve not. But the whole fall-in-love thing never worked for me anyway.
I can’t write poetry but I can remember a whole poem that was in a book at school. A friend of mine really hated English so we all thought it odd when she was so keen to go first reading a poem out loud. She had found this: “God made the little fly but then forgot to tell us why!” I can still recite it after nearly forty years😂
How lovely Kate, thank you for sharing! Poetry can really stick to us sometimes and the funniest details stay with us!
I don’t do very well with prompts but I polished up this old one and thought it might fit the bill.
Context
Behind glass, porcelain tumblers
pale and plain, from the Low Lands
limbless and spare, lustering like
albumen, raised in a curved wall
shade by shade, white, ivory, cream
In front, an abandoned table
cup on plate on cup, all white
on a red-checked cloth looks
like an unpainted still life
This poem is absolutely wonderful, that last line really got me. Did you have a particular cafe table in mind writing this?
Thanks, Miriam, you’re very kind. Yes, it was a particular table, but not in a cafe. The first stanza describes an installation in a museum near me – a set of examples of early Dutch pottery. The second describes a wheeled table which someone left in front of it temporarily. I wrote the first draft of this years ago and rewrote later, but polished up again for your post. I’m happy with it now, especially after your reaction!
AN ALPHA MALE’S VISION
Languid, warm and softly white
Bright topaz eyes in black relief
A tiny nose, moist, gentle mouth
That hides the sharpest, cruellest teeth
The supple, rounded, velvet paws
That will in play give you a pat
The vicious, rapid, hidden claws
Such is the bundle called my cat
I stroke her undulating side
Her silken head and glossy coat
Quite softly she emits a purr
Of pleasure, deep within her throat
Communication simple whole
That flows between the cat and me
A superficial oneness this
A deeper knowledge cannot be
And yet what if I tried to reach
Into the cat’s perceptive mind
I search her eyes to find the key
But feel afraid of what I find
This penetrating, open gaze
Precludes the normal twists of thought
The devious, tangled, precompiled
All ways of contact daily sought
This look demands my inmost self
I then would have to speak of truth
No fabrication, joke or pose
My deepest fears and hopes since youth
I am afraid, I do not want
To give my mind to someone else
For something worse may then occur
I may begin to know myself
I stroke my cat, again she purrs
And lifts her snow-white neck for more
Yes, sensual contact’s quite enough
I might upset the natural lore
Yes, cats are only playthings
Christine, this is brilliant, thanks for sharing. Keeping a simple ‘vision’ of someone is simpler for some but a hollow experience, let all spiritless alpha males read this poem!
Ok, challenge accepted. It’s very rough and ready, but this is what the prompt promoted in me.
Fresh eyes
Sometimes two eyes aren’t enough.
Sometimes another pair are needed
To teach yours how to see.
That’s how it was for me.
Always observant, still enchanted by the world,
My toddler’s peridot eyes
Noticed what I filtered out.
“A pied wagtail, mummy”.
Outside Lidl.
With the young guiding the old,
The parallel avian world
Slowly came into focus.
Kestrel, treecreeper, siskin
And the beginnings of a new noticing.
This is beautiful Catherine, thank you for posting! We all view the world somewhat differently don’t we? Our past constantly colouring and resetting the present, is a child’s perspective the most absolute?
Thanks Vincent, I’m a big cat lover too! I love the speed of this one and the images of the cats whirring by!