Progress Bar from Writertopia
I got all the comments done for my homework assignment, but I really can't count those as writing. What I can count is a new draft of "I Don't Like You, Poetry." I'm still not caught up yet, but the sequel poem I decided to do for this week isn't gelling together or it is moving into another direction. It will probably take longer to figure out.
Title: I don’t like you, Poetry
I don’t like you, Poetry
You’re fine for reading alone
enjoying the images and the word play,
but together in a class?
Seeing the visions of poets tearing out translucent hair
and wondering what kind of fool scholars be we.
You remind me of all the jabs from professors:
“Why is this significant?
What does it mean?
What is the Author saying?”
“Maybe exactly what is written is what was meant.”
My answer was never right; I was never right
No, Poetry, I can’t like you
Not as long as you make me be stupid
So I will never understand the greats
surely I will understand my peers
new writers,
learning,
growing,
struggling—like me.
Their words are within my reach.
Poetry, you didn’t defend me that day as I gushed about the imagery.
As I sat in the desk with cheeks aflame
The old dead greats can’t laugh at me when I’m wrong.
My peers; how they smirk. Laughing with the lesbian poet I tried to compliment.
Is it my fault I don’t look for sex in everything?
I feel like a dried-up, prudish, spinster who will never know the joys of sex,
surrounded by Playboy bunnies.
Is it my fault that spelunking is just like lesbian sex?
Militant feminist lesbian—I’d leave her in a non-metaphorical cave somewhere!
Militant feminist lesbian—aren’t I your sister too?
But she and Poetry shut me up for years after laughing at my naïveté,
mocking my innocence instead of understanding.
No, Poetry, I can’t trust you
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