Prosity

My prose is, I actually think, decent prose. I've read some vanity press books, I know what bad looks like. I've gotten better in the past six or so years since I began writing for the blogosphere. Not sure exactly when I started, because that mac site is gone. No way to accurately date the beginning. April, apparently, 2005, on Blooger. So, five years here, probably a year before, who knows. I'm not big on anniversaries. Barely give a ratssass about my own (birth or wedding) inasmuch as the particular date goes. But the experience shows, to me at least. I don't have to repost after noticing impenetrable sentences, gross grammatical or spelling errors, multiple times very often, anymore.

I write halfassed haiku when I'm not in the mood, or can't find a subject that interests me. Haiku doesn't take a lot of words, and it looks impressive, but it shouldn't. It's the rare poem that interests me, nonetheless that touches me. Maybe because I don't understand them, as I seem to 'get' abstract painting and sculpture, but not much modern music. Older music, the lyrical qualities, the harmonious whole, a cascading melody, grabs me more than the older poetical forms that told stories in rhyme and meter. Part of me feels poetry is just funny, like Seuss or limericks. Most strikes me as either humorously trite or abstrusely abstract. It is almost offensive to take words and make them conform to mathematical requirements.

No real poet would feel this way, or misunderstand so completely. I am prosaic. No poet, I. A duffer, a dabbler, a mocker, blind to the poems around me. I see you, the poets who visit. I am grateful for kind words, but to leave them for my verses is to misunderstand. As one colorblind, I cannot see what you see, but I accept that you do. I leave little red/green jokes around, as I know how to say "I don't speak Japanese" in good Japanese, and "I don't speak French" in good French. It's the only phrase of poetry I know, and you should laugh.