Confessional Poetics One

I’m going to try to make this possible series of posts thankfully short. A funny thing happened to me while blogging. I’ve become quite sickened with the whole business of poetry. First, let me state the obvious. I’m just an amateur poet of modest intelligence with just enough of a grasp on poetics to make me dangerous to myself. Second, I’m not saying that no one reads poetry, although that’s almost true (mostly poets read poetry, and although they’re not exactly nobody, they’re not the general public either [I know this because I know card-carrying members of the general public and they couldn’t give a squirrel's ass about contemporary poetry]). And I’m not saying that because I’m just really saying in a roundabout and self-pitying way that no one reads ME. Because, although that’s mostly true, it’s beside the point (and at this point, I really don’t care, because sometimes I can’t read my poetry a week later either [only the rush of the ‘creative’ moment keeps me writing {well, that’s not entirely true, and I hope to get to that somewhere in this rant later}]). No, nobody reads poetry because it doesn’t deserve to be read these days. And I’m not just talking about the pointless avant-garde. I’m talking about the futile formalists, informalists, mainstream, and any other stream I’ve seen running off at the mouth this past lifetime.