Iambic pedantic

I hate poetry. This is not an amazing revelation: as far back as I remember, I have always hated poetry. I’ve read a lot of it, written some of my own (my 1999 classic Cereal deserves its own matting and frame) but never, ever took a liking to it. I have a very smart friend, Drew, my only writer friend. He introduced me to Abuelito rum, Ernest Hemingway’s short stories, and a cute little bar in Denton, TX with a bathroom made up as a library. I love him, but not his poetry. I will admit to liking parts of poems – I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears of all my life! – but only the parts, not the sum.

Poetry is heavy on suggestion, but light on content. You don’t get a whole story, only bits of feelings and things, with the rest up for interpretation. I hate it.

I like books.

There is one exception, however. The Hollow Men, written in 1925 by T.S. Eliot. It was meant to be primarily a comment on the War, Guy Fawkes and other political matters, but I don’t read it that way. My reading of it is the disillusion in mundane life and the constant seeking that is our nature, never satisfied, together yet alone. First impressions are hard to shake. (Fun fact: On The Beach by Nevil Shute, the single most powerful novel I’ve ever read, borrows from that poem for its title.) Every time I read it, I get chills.

I wish I knew why, and what it is about it that moves me so much, so that I can find more like it and fall in love with poetry. I’ve been looking and waiting, but so far there’s just the one. I hope I get lucky again, and find more of it that speaks to me. I like feelings and things, generally.

Alas.

It’s the little things that count

Blast from the past time: When I was 17 years old, I contributed several short articles to a website called Ickle. (tagline: it’s the little things that count). The site’s long gone, but through the magic of Wayback Machine, you can view most of it here.

All the articles are worth a view, but here’s the three I kicked out, back when I expected to be published and decorated twice over by now. Reading these ten years later, I’m still unabashedly proud. We all started somewhere! I am particularly pleased with Monaco. I remember at the time thinking I was pretty clever, getting everything to rhyme…

ASHES: Ashes. The end of what once was. The proof of what used to be. Whether tapped from the slender end of a cigarette or dashed mournfully across a wide, blue ocean, ashes are the remnant of a fire long gone. Ashes are often clung dearly to, placed in urns that rival shrines. Or dumped carelessly outside, along with butts and nicotine smears. Or used to cross foreheads and hands of the faithful world wide. They even have their own Wednesday. Do you have your own Wednesday?

MONACO: Located a sneeze from France, Monaco is a speck of a country that lives on music, money and romance. From any given Monacoian tree, you can see this ickle country in its entirety. Behold, the 0.76 sq mile land of culture and dignity.

US: If you think of things on a grand scale, we are the ickle of the ickle. In a human’s selfish views, we are masters of our planet. But who is the master of us? When you look to the sky at night, past the smog and the streetlights and the flashing neon signs, there are millions of planets with millions of moons. And somewhere, out in that great large space with it’s great many nooks, someone may be looking back down at you.