iambic pentameter

I was never taught how to do this, that's not the way this went. So when people try to teach me, it's too late. It just makes me question my poetry.

Just yesterday, they asked us to write a poem.

Now, you might think, well, she's a poet, she should be excited about this, she'll know how to do it. 

But that's not the way this went.

Instead, they told me, "it must rhyme". They spouted off about "meter" and "proper grammar" and "literary devices".

I'm not saying they're wrong. My problem, you see, is that they're right.

I am not what people I know would call a poet. By all rights, to them I have no experience. They do not know that I have written over 100 poems, they do not know that I write storylines that twist like a mercenary's morals. It's been a long road to decent writing, and I am not about to all myself to disillusion myself into thinking that road was false. It wasn't.

But if you want the truth, society says that I'm doing this wrong.

They tell me that poetry cannot be a wreckage of truths and words and phrases spilling unbidden from a loosened-screw mouth into weather-worn fingers. 

They tell me that what I have written are not poems. They tell me they are merely travesties. 

trav·es·ty
/ˈtravəstē/

noun

  1. 1. a false, absurd, or distorted representation of something."the absurdly lenient sentence is a travesty of justice"
    synonyms: perversion of, distortion of, corruption of, misrepresentation of, poor imitation of, poor substitute for, mockery of, parody of, caricature of;

verb

  1. 1. represent in a false or distorted way."Michael has betrayed the family by travestying them in his plays"
    synonyms: perversion of, distortion of, corruption of, misrepresentation of, poor imitation of, poor substitute for, mockery of, parody of, caricature of;

 

They tell me that poetry cannot be what I write in-between heartbeats (beat word beat word beat the clacking of fingertips on keys another pump of blood please) they tell me it cannot be what I have made it.

But I do not understand how it can be anything else.

I might have been doing this wrong all along, but I cannot bear to do it any other way - I go by my inner metronome when I write. A poem could take me a week, three days, an hour, thirty minutes, even two. Two minutes.

Yet they insist on revisions, though there's nothing that I could bring myself to cut from the stanzas.

I am a poet who learned to be just that - not from classes, but from practice. 

I don't know if that's good enough anymore. 

The End

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