The joy of writing bad poetry

By David Myers

Southwest Kansas Register

It was one of those moments (of which I’ve had all too many) when I realized that I was far from the most intellectual person in the room.

The occasion was a poetry reading, held a few weeks ago in Dodge City. Several noted poets from in and out of state came to recite their poems.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want the organizers to think I didn’t appreciate the event. I did. I’m very glad they brought it to southwest Kansas. My ignorance isn’t they’re fault, after all.

One poet after the other stood on stage, reciting their literary creations, each of which were followed by the “oooohs” and “aaaaahs” and applause of the audience.

And after each poem was read the same question popped into my head: What the...?

Was this good poetry? I can only imagine it was, because people who seem to know poetry made clear their appreciation.

And yet, I just didn’t get it! I tried to get it, really I did! I listened carefully to each word, each phrase, but no matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t grasp what it was they were trying to say.

And after each poem was read, even while I was thinking, What the...?, I applauded and smiled knowingly, as if to say, “Oh, yes. Wow. Uh, huh. That was realllly powerful. Tell me more....”

Later, I found myself asking another question: What’s wrong with me? Have all those old B-science fiction movies I enjoy so much melted my brain like so many zippered aliens with ray guns? Can I only grasp the deeper message if it’s being uttered amid that cool “oooooEEEEE” music (like you hear every time the bug-eyed alien appears on “It Came from Outer Space”)?

Am I able to discuss the deeper message only if it’s contained in a TV show on the RFD channel? If there had been a poem about a tractor pull, could I have understood it much more clearly?

I found myself wanting to shout out, “What are you trying to say? Just tell me in plain English! Please!”

After several poets had read, people from the audience were invited to share poems they had written. It was then that I thought about my old SKR feature: “Pretty Peculiar Poems.” For a while after I first arrived here in 2000, I wrote a poem each issue on the youth page. Here’s a snippet from one:

I live in a fish bowl,

Or so it is called.

But to me it is home,

Water, gravel and all.

At times I pretend

My home is the sea,

And you are a diver

Looking in at me.

I smile and wave

As you peer at my stoop;

And I try to say ‘Hi!’

But it just comes out, ‘Bloop!’

I know this isn’t exactly Robert Frost … or David Frost … or Frosty the Snowman for that matter. And yet, I was always kind of proud of my little poems.

Just as this thought was meandering through my mind, a Kansas poet took to the stage, and his poem -- about Kansas -- contained a disparaging line about people who write rhyming poetry. I suddenly found myself mentally wadding up my old poems and tossing them into the trash can. And then I felt ashamed, because it occurred to me that poetry – real poetry – doesn’t have to be relegated to ethereal prose -- phrases that you need x-ray specs in order to see their meaning.

Real poetry is what comes from the heart; it’s words written on the page, paint put on a canvas, a song sung, or a host of other things. It’s an ever present gift from God, the ability to express what is in our heart, even if it is just a little ditty about a friendly goldfish.

Even though I couldn’t make heads or tails of many of the poems I heard that night, I finally realized that I was in the presence of something special. And you know what? If I had gotten up there and read my little fish poem, I have a feeling that those folks would have been just as appreciative. Or they would have pretended to be, which is nice, too.

Don’t ever be afraid of painting an ugly picture, singing a song poorly, or writing a silly sounding poem. If it comes from the heart, then it is indeed a gift from God, no matter what anyone, including me, says.