Confession of a poetry snob

I am, among other things, a poet. I say that flinching because I don't care for much of the poetry I read and yet I keep reading it. The way people stare at an accident even though the first instinct is to turn away. I want to see, I suppose, the mangled body of a poem and search the teeth for some sort of identity. A glimpse (or not) of the poet. That is a rather ugly image I've just offered, I know, but really, what do you look for in poetry? And WHY would you torture yourself reading all sorts of hideous poetry looking for that one that sinks its teeth into you and won't let go. The pit bull poem. I don't like flowery words and yet I am guilty of them. So, today I was poetry blog hopping looking to see (like you do) what poems/poetry books/anthologies are being reviewed. One of my favorite sites is Verse and yet, I often come across a review that is worse than the poems. A review that makes me want to run from that book, not read it. I realized then, I must be an absolute poetry snob. I just can't do it. I know my poetry isn't for everyone, particularly the depressed or suicidal as I use alot of visceral images that juxtapose life and death with ideology. I will never be able to sell myself to Hallmark. The thought makes me cringe anyway so...

Anyhow, after having read quite a number of the most recent reviews I felt inspired to write the following poem. It is not directed at any reviewer, simply the act of dissecting poems, pulling out the organs of it. Killer was my attempt at making an indigestable poem. I don't want you to chew this and feel happy having done so. I think poems should be able to stick in your throat or in your gut and make you think about why you think you need these words beyond what you think they might mean. I'm trying out new ways of writing and trying to grow within my own writing style so constructive criticism is always welcome.

-killer-
unable to
dissect the I
from the eye
the lid sticks to the white
a baby to the mother's breast
knowing no milk will come
chewing just the same
chewing just the same

drawing only blood

unwilling to
parade naked beneath paling sheets of verbiage
pissing intention in the direction
of most profit
of a name on a page in a book in the mouth of the world.

a single thought remaining:
how to turn this into a noose
to slip around you
or a knife to slit you
highly decorated stripped bare lines
unfit for consumption
the cracking pus skin
too ugly to commodify

in this insincerity oozing of anthologized worth
a temple built with the bleached and splintered bone
I'm sorry Adrienne
there are no music in these words
just the damp whisper-whimper of ghosts
all straining to avoid the sins
of admitting themselves tormented
poetry.


*a poetry of form defying form. the lust of the label: experimental but what becomes of words detached, floating like retinas? What becomes of words stripped for the purposes of display. This poem was directly inspired as a response to two things: A line from a review of poet Selima Hill by Robin Geddie who wrote: "She effectively avoids the clichés that can afflict tormented poetry;" and having scoured approximately 30 poetry anthologies (within a few hours) looking for something that would really speak to me, shout really, or just smile walk away. I am an impatient reader and a whiny adulterous lover of words. Thus "Killer" comes from that space in me which both loves the poem and wants to rip it to shreds.)

note: the nod to Adrienne refers to Adrienne Rich and in particular her criteria of seeking the perfect poems to anthologize. She wrote that she was listening for the music in them.