On Poetry

Ever since I wrote the last post, I've been feeling a little guilty about my disdain for poetry. I realize I also insulted a large percentage of my friends and some wonderful bloggers that I don't even know, but funnily enough, that doesn't bother me a bit.

I was a little delirious, but I seem to recall expressing some full-on hatred for poetry, and that's probably not quite accurate. I would hate to be responsible for an entire genre jumping off a cliff, you know. I don't actually hate poetry. I just hate other people's poetry, just like everyone else does. There are a very few exceptions, of course. My favorite poem ever is 'Patterns' by Amy Lowell, and I can certainly appreciate a nice lowbrow limerick. Literary poetry is another story entirely; I'm far too obtuse. If you have something to say, just say it! Or don't, I don't care, but don't write some cryptic missive about it and expect me to enjoy puzzling over it or appreciate your use of some weird words that no one ever heard of, okay? Here, click on this. It's called 'Wonder' and it's a prize-winning poem. What the hell, right? Crazy. I wonder, all right. I wonder what the hell you're talking about. Only I don't care enough to figure it out. Why don't you just make it easy on all of us?

I like the idea of poetry, and I like the puzzle-like aspect of it, where you try to fit an idea into a certain format, like a sonnet: fourteen lines, ten syllables each and a certain rhyming scheme. But when I'm done, I certainly don't expect someone to READ it. Sheesh. I don't want to see your completed crossword puzzle, after all, no matter how big and complicated it is. I better shut up now; I don't want any angry poets to come beat me up.

Displacement

Let me just admit right up front here that I am only writing this post so that the poem won't be at the top. The photo of Lloyd on Air Force One during President Obama's recent visit to Osan is completely irrelevant to anything I'm typing right now, or anything that might or might not be residing in my head. I simply can't stand to have a terrible poem at the top of my blog. What if some fancy publisher is clicking through blogs, looking for someone to give a multi-million dollar advance to for a memoir? When I look at new blogs, I always leave immediately if there's any kind of poetry, because I hate poetry. Someone with the refined taste of a publishing house would no doubt have similar feelings.

If you are, in fact, such a reader, please be assured that there is much more than bad poetry in my repertoire. I invite you to peruse the posts listed on the upper right, or read 'My Life in Cats', which I especially like, but alas, is neglected up there on the right because it is neither particularly funny nor objectionable. Under no circumstances should you click on any of the 'Good Reads' or 'All the Latest' because all those blogs suck. Trust me, you wouldn't want to give your hard-earned cash to any of those clowns. Sure, they're funny, touching, wise, whatever. They can't hold a candle to Stories from Korea, and don't you forget it!

The rest of you might be pleased to hear that we're on the mend. Unless I just called you a clown. Sorry! Did I write that out loud? It's the sickness; I just can't control myself. Wankers. Dammit! I have to go; they're at the door with the nets again. They're always after the tortured, brilliant artists; it's so typical.

Sick

Don't say I didn't warn you! But at least it's short, right?

Woe to us, poor family

We've been sick an eternity

Coughing, choking, puking, more

Juice, tea, tissues galore

No wine, long sleepless nights

Grody meds and bitter fights

Hour upon hour of lousy shows

Day upon day of whiny no's

Meals are vile, drinks are worse

Why were we visited with this curse?

Alone, the laundry will kill me

What can it be, this vexing malady?

It's as bad as bad can be

It must be an Osan allergy!

Warning

Just so you know, we've all been sick for about a million years. Fever, earaches, stomachaches, dizzy spells, and coughing. Even vomiting, and not the good kind. And here's the scary part: I have a strange compulsion to write a poem about it, so you might want to steer clear of Stories from Korea for a few days. I don't want you to get sick, after all.

Vision: Ode to my new yellow purse

I woke up this morning and said,
Korea again? Still? Oh, the despair!
Don't fret, they all said,
Go for a shop!
This is the land of fake purses aplenty;
it will cheer you right up!
Hmmmm, I thought, no fan of full price
It's Tuesday again, I'll hit the thrift!
And there it was,
my muse, my delight
Just the right size,
yellow, black and white
My heart sings with joy,
my wallet brims!
Shhhh, just don't tell Kate!

Thrift Store Kate Spade knockoff: $3
Composing appalling poetry and drinking wine on a balmy Korean night: Priceless