There is not much to say about me really. The nagging question I ask myself after attempting to write a poem is this: Is what I have written any good? (Is it even poetry?)
Much of what I have written probably is not good and is not even poetry, but I write anyway. Does it matter? Sometimes I think it does, and other times I wonder if my attempts have all been for naught. I write poetry because it allows me (as at least one writer has said) to have a life within a life. I often wonder: What is the definition of poetry? Is there a standard, and if so does it matter?
I think having standards does matter. I believe good poetry is the selective recreation of reality through word play, the deft use of figurative language, and embodies the expression of the writer's intuitive subconscious to impart universal themes to the audience.
Inexorably, the world is filled with volumes of bad verse. Do I want to add to them? No! Even so, much if not most of what I write is probably hackneyed. Undoubtedly I am often delusional and overly impressed with my efforts. Whether I end up shredding my work, burning it, or pressing the delete button, it is most likely that what I write, like that of 96 percent of the population, will not stand the test of time or even an honest critique in the present.
In the meantime, I will continue to write and encourage the few souls who come across my poems to write and post comments (negative or positive) regarding the quality of my work. I am not fishing for compliments nor am I searching to participate in any mutual admiration society, so do not be afraid to give your blunt assessment or admonishment. The discerning eye and ear are appreciated. In turn I will be transparently honest in my critiques of your work. Probably you would be wise to take anything I have to say about your work with a bit of skepticism. Always consider the possibility that my opinion may or may not be worth the electronic paper on which it its written. If I comment at all, you will at least know that your work grabbed my attention, for I cannot bear to read most of what is posted. That is what happens to English teachers.
I thought I’d write a bad poem, one for the ages, signifying nothing.
Pavement suffocates the living earth just as bad poetry fills volumes.
Still, oblivious to the land’s rape, the masses enjoy sentimental blathering,
And all is well since professional wrestling rules even sports columns.