It’s hard to be a poet and a female one at that.
I say poet, not poetess because the latter is idiotic and fuck political correctness. The fact is there is discrimination and for poets, it reigns supreme. A man, for instance, can write of anything. Nothing’s off the table even topics too taboo banned from my list will cause women to swoon and other men to beat their fists in appreciation of the very not-to-be-mentioned. Let’s take a closer peek—
I cannot write flowery prose or of a romantic tryst, heated sin or of love’s first kiss. If I pen these things, I’m a cliché an eye roll or a cheap trick. But my male counterpart can get away with all of these and use punctuation as he sees fit. Look, I’m guilty too of the swoon. Bukowski gets me in the bones, e.e. cummings swallows my dark heart—whole, and Neruda can wad my panties in a twist. And these are greats, at least in my book.
Perhaps, it’s because we women are the hardest critics of them all when it comes to other women and their fall. And why are we so cruel? If I’m too pretty I’m a slut, too wordy I’m a fool, too chatty I’m a twit. All of this is utter bullshit. Judge me it’s okay. It won’t make a difference either way.
Plath and Sexton (gals with some meat in their soul) confessional poets who made their mark. You see, they didn’t waste their time with highbrow idiocy because they felt relegated to these things. They reached right in and tore out organs so you could feast.
So here’s the thing… I don’t write of lush lips and summer days, or the political parade as the carnival comes to town. I will write. But I’m the delirious sort of serious poet who has no clue what to say. I’m on a meaty exploration, a field trip of wordplay. Mind-fuckery and a fighting chance. I try to paint this canvas with my mental mind-waves. I’m not pretty or witty, and small-talk is a bore. But I’m me, a writer with this disease called poetry.
once your eyes have opened
there is no turning back
hold a candle to the sun
and you’ll know futility
National Poetry Month: Day 12
Prompt: Sorta did mah own thing today.
30 poems in 30 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 30 in 30.
Love and Ink,