My dad read a poem today, and asked me what I thought of it. I asked if he wanted me to answer honestly or kindly.
He didn't like that.
Called me a critic (as though that's an insult) hurting people's feelings (as though the poet were in the car with us).
Even before I earned an English degree, back in high school even, I could have told you that this wasn't a great poem. My dad's argument is that something with emotion or that makes you feel emotion is worthwhile. Setting aside vagueries like "emotion," my argument is that sentiment alone doesn't mean it's any good. The poem in question is completely end-stopped, no enjambment, no rhythm to speak of, nothing but perfect rhymes, shallow images - it's a longer than usual Hallmark card.
And I guess if I weren't an English major his opinion wouldn't grate on my nerves so much, but, since I am, and editing/critique is kinda WHAT I COULD REALLY HAVE A FUTURE DOING, it bothers me. 50 Shades has emotion too - that doesn't mean it isn't garbage writing.
Emotion without technique isn't a poem - it's a diary entry.
And now, on to your regularly scheduled content
I don't recall much of what I did this week, as my Saturday has driven everything else from my mind. Mom and I were already planning to go to Garvan Woodland Gardens - Dad surprised us by taking the day off and coming along. The first thing we saw leaving the lobby was the peacock.
Just look at that second photo - he's so close, it doesn't even look real - it looks like a drawing of a peacock Complete showoff - he was walking right up to people, posing, doing his peacock thing. Got some great pictures out of him
Lots of water running through the park, and plenty of waterfalls (most on the smaller side). The furthest point back also gives a nice overlook of the lake. Dad says he saw a copperhead snake slide under a rock near there - we tried to notify the front desk, but no one was picking up the phone. I hope he stayed there, cause you don't want to mess with that S.O.B. They aren't always aggressive, but they will bite if necessary, and they're venomous. It probably won't kill you, but it'll hurt like a bitch.
I spotted this cute little skink outside the entrance. I believe it's a broad-headed skink, and a young one at that. Didn't get a chance to pick him up - didn't even get to touch him
One of the bridges. I just thing the texture is cool
Oh, and I remember the other thing I did this week - I had my lunch with Doc
Notes to Self
StyleOverSubstance needs ONE MORE Round Nine submission!
I need a feature idea; I'd like to do something like Holographic Resonance again, but I haven't found a good article to build around. Help plz.
I did an interview! tWR Interviews: Poetic Prose
A number of people will be finding some mail in their boxes soon!
and that jacket was bloodied anywaynietzsche said that the snake
must shed its skin or die;
but i don't know how to be my own god.
i'm a printer error
fist slam stuck scraping on repeat.
as if a denim jacket could ever
be big enough to cover this up.
as if your lipstick could ever
be red enough to swallow this whole.
as if my throat could ever
be curved enough to leave this all
the aftermaththe temple of her body was torn open tonight,
desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burned
and felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,
because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i have
to go and convince her that the handful of feathers
i have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snipped
off of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will never
believe so wholly in herself again. her body is no longer
a temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousand
foot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will never
again be able to trust her body, to know her body.
this is not the first poem i’ve written about rape. but this is
the first poem i’ve written about rape when my hands
are shaking and i have a twenty second phone call still ringing
in my ears. it’s not about statistics anymore. i cannot
distance myself from the cold, hard facts by using pretty
metaphors about dissolving and beginning anymore
because a gi
voices made to shake the dustThere are a thousand and one voices in this room with me, all of them awake and lilting through my senses.
Catherine is soft, sheltered even; she reminds me of butter, half melted in the summertime. But Stephen, who sits across from her, is a crueler counterpart, uneven and harsh in his unfiltered utterances; he has bruised more than one voice in here.
George is a spiderweb, each word weaving into another until they lie stretched, reflecting the weight of the world. Beside him, Jodi is a hurricane; constant in her certainty, she is the ground below my feet.
John is a grandfather clock, proud and stately; whisperer of stories, he has soothed my soul more often than I recall. There is Wilbur also, dearest Wilbur, who I loved as a child but cannot manage to love now.
There are a thousand and one voices in here and if I were to tell you about them all, I would be here until time claimed my bones for dust. But I am not made for dust, so I can only tell you this: it is impossible for me to l
CEO vs The BoardMy mental illnesses are a board of directors
Overseeing my vast and complicated brain as if it were a company.
Anxiety is the guy who was hired to be creative,
To come up with all the what-ifs, the hypotheticals.
He's rarely right but they all think he's good to have around.
The CEO disagrees.
Bipolar is a scatterbrained woman who's always the last
To make up her mind
And most of time after she does, she changes it.
Often more than once.
She's an inconvenience but they all think she's good to have around.
The CEO disagrees.
PTSD has a photographic memory and she never forgets
An event, a word, a smell, a feeling
The most random thing will remind her of one of these
And she doesn't hesitate to bring them up at the most inopportune of times.
She's annoying and distracting but they all think she's good to have around.
The CEO disagrees.
Depression is the head of the board who feeds off the actions of all the others
Then twists them around and makes it all about him,
how it made him feel s