poemland
it's like a swimming pool at the foot of the stairs 🏊♀️
And there was my poetry. I dreamt more and more of literary success. I spent hours staring at the wall in my room, imagining reviews, letters written to me by celebrated fellow-poets, fame and praise and still more fame. I did not at that time know Emily Dickenson’s great definition, her “Publication is not the business of poets”; being a poet is all, being known as a poet is nothing.
Writing poetry is like descending a long and winding staircase in the middle of the night. Eyes puffy. Body Aching. Fumbling down while trying not to miss a step. Gripping the railing as the old boards creak underfoot. Then reaching the bottom and finding a swimming pool. Dark and wide. Sink or swim?
Albeit rare, I sometimes read poetry and feel a sense of kinship with the poet — like what they and I are doing are one and the same. More-so when I read poetry I have this feeling of existential dread. I am not a poet. I am a dilettante.
Exhibit A in the case of dread reading. Poemland by Chelsey Minnis. I spent about forty five minutes with this one and I was shook. It is a perfect takedown of poetry and the person vain enough to try their hand at the craft. Tons of great one liners with sharp teeth. I want to see a poem as a massive picture. Full of color and life. Something I can draw a straight line through. This fit the bill. My kind of poetry.
Here are some memorable lines I highlighted from Poemland.
“Let’s go get some smoke in our eyes”
“Is it a sin to fail to make any money?”
“A great devalued thing is a plain life”
“Now that I am so happy, why do I need poetry?”
“It’s like trying to drink a bottle of champagne in a roadside bathroom”
“There is a way to smoke your cigarette and look out the window but you’ll never get enough of it”
“You pull a knife out of your head and threaten with it”
“I should have hired someone else to write these poems …
If only I had lived during the 70's I could have smoked at work!”
Poetry should mean nothing. Finding meaning is a fools errand. Read it for feel. Read it once unless it strikes a chord. Keep it moving. I am sure Chelsey Minnis, and all poets for that matter, are trying to say something. Fine by me, but I would rather a novel push me to some sort of vision quest — not a poem.
I want poems to hit me in the gut. I want to scream lines from my porch to wake the neighbors. I want to have the words bounce around in my head as I walk around in circles. I want to get cut by the knife. I want to pencil dive into the pool at the foot of the stairs.
More to come. My next poetry collection will be called Country Songs and I will have it up for sale by the end of the summer. I hope you are well. Peace and love.