My Life of Rhyme

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I wake up
I wash up
I brew a cup

I log on
I blog on
I work on

I eat
I meet
I greet

I stare
I share
I care

I eat some more
I do a chore
I’m such a bore

I read some blogs
I drop some logs
I fix some clogs

I earn my pay
I end my day
I hit the hay


I am not a fan of poetry.

This post is a poem.

Or my version of poem.

It has no set meter.

But it has rhyme.

Albeit forced at times.

And it has stanzas.

So it is a poem.

Or not.

I don’t know.

I am not a fan of poetry.


Written for today’s one-word prompt, “rhyme.”

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One-Liner Wednesday — Self Reflection

Robert Burns

“O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!”

The great Scottish poet, Robert Burns, made this astute observation in his poem, To a Louse.

Now I’m not a big fan of poetry, but back in high school English lit class, we did have to study some of the world’s great poets, including the aforementioned Robert Burns. Of all of his poems we read, one poem, and one particular line in that poem — the one I’ve quoted at the top of this post — stood out to me.

For a more contemporary interpretation of the quoted text, it essentially means, “It would be great if we could somehow have the gift of being able to see ourselves the way other people see us.”

We really can’t see ourselves as others see us, can we? We see ourselves through our own perspectives, our own perceptions, and our own reality. Few of us can understand how we really come across to those around us or to the world.

Wouldn’t it be nice if, even for just an hour or a day, we could know how others view us? I think that seeing ourselves as others see us would be a gift, but perhaps it would actually be a burden. No doubt, though, it would be illuminating.

Maybe you wouldn’t like what you see.

Maybe such a “gift” would cause you to only say and do things that would please others.

Maybe it’s better to stay true to yourself and behave in a way that is natural to you, as an individual, regardless of how you are viewed by others.

In the end, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with a little self-reflection.


This post is for today’s One-Liner Wednesday prompt from Linda G. Hill.

A Poem

Limerick

There once was a blogger named “Momus”

Who wrote his posts so that few would notice

Until he met Sight

And Sandi one night

But his attempt at poetry was still bogus


This totally inexcusable attempt at poetry was inspired by Sight and Sandi, who have taken up residence in, and have completely dominated, the comments section of several of my recent posts, and who also demanded that a poetry-hater like me take a shot at writing poetry. And so I did and here it is. See?

As a point of clarification, I’m Fandango, not Momus. However, it’s much harder to rhyme anything with Fandango than it is to rhyme with Momus. And Sight suggested in one of his many comments on one of my posts that I should change my name to Momus, who, for what it’s worth, was the personification of satire and mockery in Greek mythology. Ask him why, because it beats the shit out of me!

 

Not a Fan

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Long ago and far away, when I was a senior in high school, I had a giant crush on a girl, Ann, who was the editor-in-chief of our school’s quarterly literary magazine, The Quill. Each issue contained about 30 student-written poems and short fiction as well as a handful of student-drawn sketches.

I was never a literary-oriented student. I could write decent essays for my various classes, as long as they were mostly reporting facts, recounting observations, and didn’t require too much imagination or creativity.

When it came to poetry, however, I was not a fan. Poetry hurt my head. Of course, I had no choice but to read poetry if I wanted to pass Honors English Lit. I had to read a bunch of poems by poets such as W.H. Auden, E.E. Cummings, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Jack Frost — oh wait, that’s Robert Frost — and myriad other poets whose names I have long since forgotten.

I recall sitting in English class when the teacher would ask, “Who can tell us what the poet was saying?” I would try to will myself into invisibility, hoping the teacher wouldn’t see me. It never worked, though. I would inevitably be called upon to offer my interpretation of what this poem or that one meant.

What I wanted to say when ask to explain what the poet was saying was, “How the hell should I know?”

Word Salad

Instead, I would go into word salad mode, hoping that, when strung together, my response would sound insightful. After I finished my haphazardly crafted, totally meaningless response, the teacher would often stare at me for a few seconds and then point to another student. “Elizabeth, what do you think the poet meant?” Of course, Elizabeth always nailed it. What a little bitch.

But I digress. In order to spend more time with Ann, I volunteered to work on the staff of The Quill. I was the only boy on the magazine’s staff, something my beloved Ann appreciated. At first, anyway.

But as the school year progressed, Ann began to see through my act. When she asked for my thoughts on poems students had submitted for inclusion in upcoming issues of the literary magazine, she realized that I had no thoughts at all.

Ann was quite perceptive. One day she asked me directly, “Do you even like poetry?”

I couldn’t pretend anymore, even though I knew my confession might end any chance of dating Ann. “Poetry is too much work,” I blurted out. “You have to try to cut through all that symbolism, the flowery language, and all the metaphors and similes. You have to dig deep into the lines of the poetry to get to the underlying meaning, to try to figure out what the fuck the poet was attempting to say. Why can’t the poet just lay it out, plain and simple and without all that ambiguity?”

Furious, Ann fired me from the staff of The Quill. I was crushed by my crush.

And to this day, I am not a fan of poetry.


Today’s Daily Prompt word is quill. Thanks, WordPress, for churning up this painful memory.