Ostentatiousness, Poetry and Alt Commands

I'm baaaaaaaaaack, bitches. You didn't think I had LEFT did you? This is a repost, yes, from 2009. But it is still relevant. I have an English degree. I'm sorry. Some things just bug the snot out of me and amuse me at the same time.

I know. I know. It's not nice to mock someone else's writing. I'm fully aware that I'm going to hell. And not some cushy, comfortable hell, either - I'm going to the hell where you're forced to sit for all eternity reading the little ditties that Hallmark rejected as treacle, then having to discuss the finer points of poetic license with the authors who, through some horrible twist of fate, have learned alt commands and now know how to put a © , a ® or a ™ after their works.

I know full well that I'm no Sylvia Plath. But I DO know the difference between good poetry and bad, and truly, some of the stuff I've read this morning isn't just bad - it's awful. There was one that was particularly bad - the poet was, I believe, trying to compare himself to precipitation. He then proceeded to explain in Weather-Channel-like-detail exactly what the sky does with the precipitation during various parts of the year:

In the fall
I am the rain
Making you wet
Until you open up
And take me in

On Christmas Eve
I am the snow
Admired at first
A glistening reflection
Of twinkling mirth


Armed with a shovel
You scoop me up
And toss me in a pile
Along with the others
Off to the side


And on it went. Truly, when I got to the shovel line, I wasn't sure if the poet was talking about himself as rain, snow or dog poo.

Right. You're all going to say that it's romantic, and that I'm just a big meanie mocking this work. But come on, can anyone say "mixed metaphors?" It wouldn't have even bothered me so much, except when I came to the bottom, I found the © in front of the year and before his name at the end. The next "piece" had an ™. Which is it, Lord Byron, is it copyrighted or is it trademarked? And do you honestly think anyone would steal it and attach their name to it? In public?

And then came the best part - the poem wasn't copyrighted to the poet (let's call him Byron - the person's actual nickname is about as presumptuous, all things considered). Noooo - His Lordship made up a "company name" for his work - we'll call it "Byronvision." I shit you not. Holy pomposity, Batman!

I usually copyright my work - I don't register it (nor do I give the impression that it's registered with a little ®) and I don't trademark it (see previous statement). I indicate a copyright. That would be all. I think most poets and writers do that, particularly on the internet, where everyone with a keyboard and some kind of word processing program fancies him- or herself a writer. To imply that you've done otherwise with little ditties you've scribbled on the back of your timecard in the company cafeteria seems to me to be the height of arrogance.

But I'm a snob.

Oh, and one more thing - the readers. When I write a poem and I blog it (which is rare these days, because I know full well when shit is dripping from my fingertips onto my keyboard), I fully expect my readers to be honest in their critiques. Poetry is not an exercise in personal therapy. Of course we all write about our angels and our demons, and I have no problem with someone writing a poem about a bad relationship, a broken heart, or even their dog getting run down in the middle of Main St. by a hearse. But for the love of everything literary, do it WELL.

I met you
On Thursday, January 8
at 2:36 p.m. in
the Smith Haven Mall.
You were wearing
a Banana Republic coat,
a green turtleneck sweater with ribbing,
black Mudd lowrider jeans
black boots
with a heel that I believe was 1 3/4 inches
but I could be wrong about the height
and I stared at you for a while
then started following you...

...is not poetry. But some of the blog readers seem to be of the mind that, as long as you're talking about an emotion, it's not only poetry, it's GOOD poetry. They rave, they ponder prettily about "what could have been the inspiration for this," they give kudos upon kudos...please. Describing an obsession and stalking does not make one a poet.

And neither does comparing oneself to dog poo. Even if it rhymes.