POETRY IN MOTION

For some reason, I am still pissed off about the poetry class that I commented on Wednesday.  You remember, the instance where I shoved my entire foot all the way to beyond the ankle into my stupid big mouth.  THAT comment.

I have been mulling it over.  I mean, let's be honest here.  I'm no Hemingway (thank frikkin' God because I'd be drunk, hairy, and dead), but I'm no hack, either.  I know how to write a goddamned poem, and I can write 'em pretty flipping well, I might add.

My problem is free verse.  I mean, really.  What the hell is there about a red wheelbarrow?  And who cares if it sits in the rain?  Honestly.  WHO CARES?

I care about Paul Revere's midnight ride (that never really happened because the dumbass got captured almost immediately).  I care about the Highwayman's girlfriend getting shot in the chest warning him away.  I care about the Inchcape Rock, Jemima's curly hair, the Jabberwock, and I've even shown some affinity for Abou Ben Adhem (though I'm damn sick of his tribe increasing).  Water ... water ... every-damn-where nor any drop to drink, so I'm just hanging around and waiting for the fly to buzz when I die.  And truly, how many ways do I love you?  All of you?  More ways than can fit into a goddamned wet red wheelbarrow, I can assure you of that.

So how come the only poem my professor liked was the one it took me less than five minutes to write that I created using Scholastic's Poetry Generator on my SmartBoard?  How is this possible?  How is this fair?  How is this even remotely justifiable?

I'll tell you how - It's the same bizarre space orbit that keeps my foot in my mouth.  I can bust my ass and slam my head against a wall and write poetry until my fingers shoot blood across the paper, and it'll never matter.

ANYONE, any damn idiot can write free verse, so it stands to reason that ANYONE, any damn idiot can grade it, as well.

So here's my new poem. 

ODE TO FREE VERSE

Oh free verse,
So perverse,
You claim not to rhyme
Or have meter.
You peter
To the end of your line.
I hate you,
Berate you,
But write you I must.
Defenses swell
(My poem ends well) .
 You're welcome.

(Disclaimer:  No offense intended to poets.  I'm just pissy.)