Proof I Am Not a Poet

I recently came across a slip of paper embedded in an old book of mine which contained a poem I'd written.

Kindly note, this is strictly Juvenilia, and as such, isn't very good. In point of fact, much as I love poetry (and even wrote my fair share), virtually none of it was ever worth the paper it was written on.

I suppose it ought to sadden me to admit that this is likely the best poem I've ever written, given it's little more than doggerel. Still, if I cannot serve as a positive example, perhaps I can still fulfill my role as a cautionary tale of how *NOT* to write. The following is an example. And no, I'm not proud of it; nonetheless, I decided to post it here. Feel free to make fun of it: my skin is exceptionally thick at this point in my life :D

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Oh what shall I do with the thousand desires
          That scream for release from my flesh?

Oh what shall I do with their motivate fires
          Which seek with their endings to mesh?

For the love of their songs, Resolutions I spurn,
          For conflict is the Song of my Spirit;

As within my poor breast, my heart overturns,
          And I write of it so you may hear it.

                                                                    ~JM (circa 1992-3)
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Not Insane (...?)

Is it not the sign of the sheerest insanity that, while reviewing the notes I’ve made in my Farley file of characters for reference purposes (I confess I’ve done this: despite the enormous size of my head, not even IT can contain the encyclopaedic amounts of information generally shelved therein…which is to say, even the size of MY head has its limits*, so I do make notes and reference sheets for complicated novels, plots, ideas and even entire worlds) I find myself going off into entire tangents about each character, including their origins, experiences in their life which demonstrates what made them the ‘people’ they are today…To the point where there is literally another entire book/story/set of stories contained therein? For each character of note? It’s unending, and mind-wrackingly so.

While the ideas may be unending, my time is most certainly not; when looking around my brain, my first thought is, ‘I wish I could get a good editor in here’.

(Just like that, see? [points to the period/comma above])

To look at it another way, this is all either the blathering word-salad of a madman, or the ravings of brilliance.

While I remain unconvinced I’m possessed of actual brilliance, the alternative is far less attractive to me, so I prefer assuming the latter, while fearing the former is actually the case.



~J
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*Hard to believe, I know.