I Hate Poets

I hate poets.

Self-important pricks

Standing

Up

In front of a crowd

Reading aloud

Breathing

in weird places.

 

Sure they may act

Awkward, shy

But still

there they are

Up there

Reading

And the words

never

Sound as good

On their lips

As they do

On the page.

 

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About Blue Eagle Dreamer

Shamanic High Priestess and facilitator of empowerment and healing circles for girls and women, including a monthly Red Tent Temple. BA in English, minor in anthropology. Waldorf homeschool mom. Reiki master, cranial sacral therapist, herbalist, menstruvist, feminist, epicurian.
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2 Responses to I Hate Poets

  1. Terry says:

    I don’t know. Bad poets can use theatrics to entertain the crowds but too often their words on the page lay as limp as a “wet, paper bag.” (I stole that simile from Anne Wilson Gregory.)
    Too many slammers haven’t a clue that a poem requires the talents of a musician, a story teller, a puzzle solver, a cinematographer and a newspaper editor.
    AND I remember when we did a reading at J. M. Prince, fiction by moi, poetry by toi, and you weren’t a prick, and your breathing was just fine. And we were both good for the eyes and the ears in many ways. (Oh, we were young.)

  2. Cerwydwyn says:

    I don’t *really* hate poets. But I did happen to catch a reading at the boot and while some of it was good I just wanted to get the hell out as quickly as possible because most of it wasn’t. No slammers were heard just people writing about seagulls and, you know, grass. Growing. They may have gone home and written about the audience’s eyes glazing over but it was really dim in there.
    And yeah, we were young. And hawt.

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