Not to be one of those people that talks about pansy writer’s block all the time/ever again — or one of those people that has just discovered a song that came out in 2004 — but seriously. Is this amazing? Yes.
Poet, Be Like God
I’ve briefly mentioned this before, but I’ll say it again: I think if there’s one, immediately irksome subject for a poem to tackle, it’s writing poetry — describing the writing process, the agony of writer’s block, the expectation from an imaginary audience. Such poems are inaccessible to people who have no interest in writing poetry. They’re annoying to people who do. The only audience I could see actually enjoying such self-important, self-indulgent, generally self-y whining are the people who romanticize poetry writing — who think that, if they only had the time, if they only lived in the Catskills, if only there were fresh strawberries, they would be poets.
Unsurprisingly there’s a lot of such poetry out there. Surprisingly to me, today I read one I really liked. Courtesy of The Writer’s Almanac — this is “Man Writes Poem” by Jay Leeming.
The Good Business of Your Own Burning
The problem with older, more established poets is that they can’t seem to stop writing about what a bitch writing is. If they’re feeling especially sprightly, they’ll reference the very poem you are reading at that moment in time. This poem! they’ll cry, Christ, if you could only understand what I went through!
Dear old people: I know language is a challenge, and words have created and destroyed you and all, but honestly, please stop. Love, Adrianne.
From The Writer’s Almanac
Someday, I will stop being a tool by reading the poetry that is prescribed to me by Garrison Keillor, Ltd. But until that day, you must endure every single awesome thing that reaches my inbox.
“A Disappointment,” By Louis Jenkins:
The best anyone can say about you is that you are a
disappointment. We had higher expectations of you.
We had hoped that you would finish your schooling.
We had hoped that you would have kept your job at the
plant. We had hoped that you would have been a better
son and a better father. We hoped, and fully expected,
that you would finish reading Moby Dick. I wish that,
when I am talking to you, you would at least raise your
head off your desk and look at me. There are people
who, without your gifts, have accomplished so much
in this life. I am truly disappointed. Your parents, your
wife and children, your entire family, in fact, everyone
you know is disappointed, deeply disappointed.
It probably says something about me, that I love this so much: but let’s not dwell on it. Nicely executed, Mr. Jenkins.