My name is Rosanne and I’m a poet. And, though you may not have realized it, this blog has been a desperate cry for poetry.
Hold on there—don’t run away yet!
For lots of highly technical reasons—ones I probably shouldn’t discuss since I haven’t received a
stamp of approval Ph.D—all writing
operates on the same principles. As a freelance editor, I get paid to explain
those, so if you want to hear that spiel, contact me separately.
Of all the forms of writing, humor, songwriting, and poetry have the most in common. They have “PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWER: itty-bitty living space.”
Poets, songwriters, and comic writers aim to wreak the most havoc with the fewest words. They face strict rules that must be both followed and broken. It’s tough stuff, yet, if they succeed, they get a direct line to a person’s being. Not too shabby. Hard as hell, but not shabby.
So you’ve been effortlessly enjoying my humorous blog without realizing it’s poetry attempting to make its way in a world that loathes poetry.
At least I hope you enjoy it—if not, why are you here? Masochist.
But I bet you’re not sure if you’d really go for the poetry, straight up. You wonder if you’re part of that poetry-loathing majority.
You want to know what I think trips everyone up about poetry? Here it is. I’m serious. The big reveal is……………………now.
People hate poetry because they try to understand it.
Seriously. Think of your favorite comedian. Think of a Jon Stewart or Bill Cosby or whoever doing a spiel that had you holding your sides. Heck, think of a funny story from this blog. Are you ready? Now try to UNDERSTAND it.
I’m guessing it’s not so funny anymore.
Now, some humor isn’t for you; some days even your favorite comic leaves you cold. That’s art! But you don’t give up on humor entirely, right? Well, I demand equality for poetry!
So we’re going to try a literary experiment. I’m fomenting a revolution and I don’t want to be the only barricade out there, okay? We can do this. After all, was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Who’s with me?
Rule Number One: I will still be funny. It will happen—the kids will be brilliant, adorable, illogical aliens and I will be a great big smarty-pants. I will dance in those smarty pants. Enjoy! Or leave, that’s cool, too.
You’re still here?
Rule Number Two: When the urge or the muse or a 50-million-volt shot of electricity strikes, I will post a naked poem. Then we will try the new food without ketchup, listen to unexpurgated rock and roll, drink liquor without mixers, jump without looking.
Rule Number Three: No one will try to UNDERSTAND the funny. No one will try to UNDERSTAND the poetry.
That is our contract. Sign it in blood and email it to me by morning.
Do NOT tell anyone with a graduate degree in literature—unless they’ve got one of Hermione’s charmed Galleons. Then just make them do the Truffle Shuffle and let them in.
Bonus points to anyone who caught at least three references to classic (funny!) movies. Double points to anyone who caught the movie referenced twice. Quadruple points to anyone who caught me making a reference I didn’t realize I’d made, in which case, it is NOT theft of intellectual property, just sleep deprivation.
And NO! Harry Potter does not count as a movie. Geez.