| kabi |
Posted
on 04-Apr-01 02:25 PM
Ars Poetica
There once was a poet named Adwiti Subba
Who thought writing poetry was like playing the tuba:
A BIG instrument, so it had to make a BIG sound.
Poetry was about lifting your soul above the ground.
She entered her poem in poetry.com
All of a sudden, there was a loud vrhaaam!
Lo and behold, she was a semi-finalist
The pleasure was so great, it made her eyes mist.
And then, publicity, talk of The Kathmandu Post
Good old Ashutosh Tiwari, decided to make the toast.
Subba was delighted, she thought she was so good.
Waxing theories of poetry, wow what better mood.
Then came another vrhaaam!
Poetry.com turned out to be a scam.
Tiwari withdrew his offer.
His name on the article, surely he'd suffer.
There were accusations, innuendos, a barrage of hurt
Some people were sympathetic, others were curt.
Amidst this hullaballoo, no one talked of Subba's craft.
When it came to discussing poetry, everyone had gone daft.
No, let me take that back.
One person in here was not a hack.
Hom Raj Acharya, himself a poet, published.
Saw Subba's poem for what it was--pure rubbish.
Why is Subba's poem so bad, you might ask.
For this reason: writing poetry is not an easy task.
To illustrate my point, let me critique "Between Eyes and Eyes"
And tell you why this poem is filled with lies.
But wait a minute: can poems be deceitful?
Sure they can, when they try to sound "poetic" and thereby cool.
Like my working with this convoluted rhyme.
Don't the words look pretty, don't they chime?
"In the solitary silence of my soul," Subba starts.
This line in itself is full of farts.
Why is the soul solitary? According to whom?
Why not let the soul be a housewife, sweeping the floor with a broom?
"I feel myself connecting as a whole," she continues.
Yeah, right, this line has so much juice.
What does it mean? How can you connect as a whole?
How do you know your whole is not a mole? Or for that matter, an asshole?
"In all sincerity, I know your spirit."
Yuck! "Silence" "soul" "spirit"--what lousy lyric.
Yes, bombard the reader with abstract nouns.
Wrap them in vagueness, you've fooled these clowns.
She even has the phrase, "the shooting star."
So innovative, isn't it? Like a beer-guzzling car.
And then "eternal awakening"--profound to the max.
Why not write for Hallmark, join the other hacks?
Compare Subba's poem to that of Hom Raj,
Now he is a poet who deserve the real applause.
Read his poem, note how down to earth it is.
No eternal crap, just a kerosine stove, trying to please.
Now Namita-Kiran Theune, she has some potential.
She uses concrete images--for poetry it's essential.
A fine sense of language you have, my dear poetess.
Keep writing, and your poems will acquire more finesse.
You would do well to ignore our little Biswo.
He thinks he's an intellectual, but he's really a 'ho'.
Often, the man has no idea what he's talking about,
No original thought in the brain of this smarmy lout.
Yes, Biswo, look up the word "smarmy" in the dictionary.
You think good writing is like playing the pictionary:
Make the readers guess the meaning of the big words you use.
Only your warped mind knows the answers to your clues.
Biswo makes absurd analogies, like poetry to S.L.C.
Often I'm thinking: this guy's brain resembles a pea.
His writing is horrible, but he thinks he's a big brass.
My conclusion: he doesn't know his head from his ass.
What is poetry? Pay heed to this thought:
"Not in ideas but in things," this is where a good poem is caught.
Subba's poem is full of cliches, it'll receive an F in any poetry class.
But I'll admit: it sounds lofty, so it thrills the unread mass.
You want to read good poetry? Read Robert Hass,
Or Rita Dove, or Czeslaw Milosz--these people have class.
How about Wislawa Szymborska, the Polish Nobel prize-winner?
Chew her poetry, swirl it in your mouth, like you eat your dinner.
Another thing: good poetry doesn't have to be an easy reading.
It's like growing a plant, which needs time, plenty of feeding.
Often easy poems like Subba's are finished in one shot:
It's like clearing your nostril of that annoying snot.
A good poem demands repeated reading
new nuances, new ways of receiving.
Read the same poem in the kitchen, even while making love.
Lick the poem, let it dribble down from your chin, give it a shove.
As for my poetic qualifications, I have none.
I'm doing this partly because it's so much fun.
This is not a good poem, because it's so easy to "get"
My advice: flush this garbage down your toilet.
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