See? I told you. I’m an overgrown twelve-year-old.
I am decidedly not a poet. I do write limericks. Smokin’ limericks, if I do say so myself. I can tell whole stories in limerick stanzas that will have you saying, “Wow. She’s a really shitty poet, but the girl does rock the limerick.”
Whatever. Any nine-year-old with a decent vocabulary and an ear for cadence can write limericks. Not exactly a boastworthy talent.
The ability to write poetry, though, that’s something entirely different. Like music and wine, poetry may have its snobbish fans, but I’m not one of them. Just like I am with, again, music and wine, I’m somewhat uneducated about what is supposedly the good (poetic) stuff, but I know what I like.
Haiku doesn’t do much for me. Those who love it love it, and that’s cool. I’m just not one of them. I need more than a fistful of words in a poem to make me love it. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I do dig Ogden Nash, after all.
Two by Nash:
Develops the jaw,
But celery, stewed,
Is more quietly chewed.
Reflections on Ice-Breaking
I love a guy who knows how to have fun with words.
But was Nash a poet? I’d definitely say yes, but those who subscribe to a higher order of poetic excellence might disagree. They’d require the reader to have a deeper reaction than a giggle or appreciative snort and I suppose they might be right, but remember, I’ve been known to drink Boone’s Farm, so high-brow anything isn’t exactly my claim to fame.
I’m getting off track. Enough about Nash and Silverstein and even my beloved limericks. What truly dazzles me is when someone can take words—ordinary words found in any dimestore dictionary—and arrange them in such a manner as to carry me away on feathery wings of stardust. Fabulous.
Like all things I don’t understand, I chalk the poet’s gift up to magic, nothing less. Magic that I would love to have, but don’t.
Ah, what the hell. I write bitchin’ limericks. That’s something, right?
Photo courtesy of Morgue File, which offers lots of wonderful, free images for public usage.