what I am doing wrong (poetically)?
I write from the heart and post my best –
then notice how other blogs get lots of likes for seeming tripe…
Do I have to feed TwitFace and offer a FaceGram share?
Did I neglect to check the box on some vapid social media setting?
What the holy lyrical hell has blogging come to?
Is asking fellow word-addicts to READ what I write too much?
It only confirms my suspicion that CONTENT has taken a reluctant back seat to insta-digestibility.
Please advise.
The funny thing about it is that snobbery for so-called bad poetry comes now at a moment when the Internet seems to be forecasting a democratic comeback for poetry. All sorts of people are indulging in a pleasure for language, recording their breakups, the sound of the ocean, the majesty of the night sky, the changing of the seasons, and O so many other topics that would make an established workshop leader’s upper lip twitch itself into a snarl fit.
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did’st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array, ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.
In critic’s hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.
What is a poet? An unhappy man who conceals profound anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so fashioned that when sighs and groans pass over them they sound like beautiful music. His fate resembles that of the unhappy men who were slowly roasted by a gentle fire in the tyrant Phalaris’ bull—their shrieks could not reach his ear to terrify him, to him they sounded like sweet music. And people flock about the poet and say to him: do sing again; Which means, would that new sufferings tormented your soul, and: would that your lips stayed fashioned as before, for your cries would only terrify us, but your music is delightful. And the critics join them, saying: well done, thus must it be according to the laws of aesthetics. Why, to be sure, a critic resembles a poet as one pea another, the only difference being that he has no anguish in his heart and no music on his lips. Behold, therefore would I rather be a swineherd on Amager, and be understood by the swine than a poet, and misunderstood by men.
ƇƟƝŇƸƇƮĦƟƟƘ 