For awhile I hated poetry because I didn't understand it. All poetry was sensitive glitter, reserved for smug, self-important assholes, who were haughty and deep. Like Linda Lovelace. Or dungeons. Or secret dungeons. Or French people. French people who locked their souls in secret metaphorical dungeons, where their poetry was chained and whipped daily because it plundered baguettes, tongue-kissed Madame Dupont, and took the road less traveled by, but someday we will have jaunty berets (je ne sais pas) and be free from le tyrannical aristocracy, oui? Tres bien! Louis! Richelieu! VIVA LA REVOLUTION!
So...that's what I think about when someone says "poetry."
One day, I discovered what became my favorite poem. Another day I went to France. You know what? I like smug and glittery when the constituent is sardonically aware of its own narcissism (this is more prevalent in poetry than in France).
And about half the time, that's what it's like over at From Quiet Thoughts. Brown is a poet from San Francisco with dreamy bedroom eyes, thoughtfully propped up against a pillow in his profile picture looking pensive and bored, as if porn just doesn't get him off anymore since the internet made it all socially acceptable to jerk it all the time. He could so be French, especially with all the cigarettes and wine.
Honestly, I fucking love about a third of his poems, I want to edit the hell out of another third, and the rest? Fucking dungeon, like he's trying to be a poet instead of just being poetic.
Because sometimes, this happens:
About Me: Increments of time, attach themselves to light, creating impassioned pixels of reality. We are what we see, feel and hope.which sounds like lyrics to low-fi-electro-indie-rock and other things that are trucked with hyphens and pictures of mustaches that lack any real hair. What does this say about Brown, as a person? We're just particles fueled by our perception of reality, who can really know anyone, and if you can't figure it out then you don't deserve to know and all that priggish bullshit and SHUT THE HELL UP.
Which means Brown is a cheater. Fuck that distant, vague crap. He should do it better because I know he can, even though sometimes he could benefit from an editor, a little more self-awareness,
and a little less of that thing, you
That thing that "poets" do, where lines are
for no apparent reason, although
the idea is free verse
and the pauses between phrases can be inconsequential and
I'm a big fan of Rodin (OMG YOUR PROF PIC MATCHES YOUR HEADER OMG), so the header is fine, but poetry thrives on suggestion, aesthetics, and rhythm. Brown excels at the first, does a good job at the second, and needs to work on the third. Part of aesthetics is not just avid prose, but how the poem looks, and honestly, that template reminds me of fungus. Stop feeding shit to your template. Pick a paler, less offensive green for the words - that alone will improve things. Think about flow and meter. You know how to write. Do it better.
I applaud the flows of nonsense because he's practicing his attack. Sometimes the prose is a bit awkward and clunky, but he's exercising and I respect that, despite the overt naval-gazing, mostly because there isn't a lot of filler. There's just good and bad practice. Sometimes his spelling is fucking barbaric, he does the "your/you're" thing and if that shit is intentional to prove a point, like we're too hooked on grammar as a society or something, or if you purposely substituted "poured" with "pored" as a play on words, know this: that doesn't make any fucking sense, but I'm over it, because I read that one about the snail about 500 times.
I'm a sucker.
for effort and skill, but
because sometimes he sounds like he's trying to be a poet instead of just being himself.