Never too late for that, erika!

No, I guess not. But you know, went through the Obligatory Writer Girl Teen Poet phase and have not given them much thought since...poetry (writing) now is country music to Xander...the music of pain.But I shouldn't neglect poets for that...it doesn't work that way for everyone.

But I shouldn't neglect poets for that...it doesn't work that way for everyone.

Yes, please drop the notion that poetry is about Expressing Feelings. Lyric poetry, of course, does this very ably, but that's because it's about Heightened Language. I recommend Marianne Moore who loved zoos and baseball and never foisted icky feelings on her readers.

I don't think feelings are icky...ok, sometimes mine are. But otherwise. I don't know where you get this stuff...be happy when one dirtbag gets beheaded, you're marked for life.

Feelings are fine. As John Gardner notes, every writer strives for sentiment. It's the sentimental you have to look out for.

I'm just down on poetry as Mood Dump. I also dislike Garden Poetry which gets all riled up about anglo saxon plant names and the juiciness of fecundity.

What Hec said.

wrod....which is why I don't inflict my poems on people, cause they're like "Why Don't You Love Me Like I Love You, You Idiot?"

One more poem to hopefully make you want to check more out, erika, and I'm off to bed (eventually, I will tag those last few lines - god I love them so):

"A Blessing" – James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more, they begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

I was at Kenyon College when James Wright's papers were given to the college in a special celebration, and got to see Galway Kinnell read this poem.

The poem my March tagline came from (which you've already seen if you read my LJ):

DID I MISS ANYTHING?
Tom Wayman

Question frequently asked by
students after missing a class

Nothing. When we realized you weren't here
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours

Everything. I gave an exam worth
40 percent of the grade for this term
and assigned some reading due today
on which I'm about to hand out a quiz
worth 50 per cent

Nothing. None of the content of this course
has value or meaning
Take as many days off as you like:
any activities we undertake as a class
I assure you will not matter either to you or me
and are without purpose

Everything. A few minutes after we began last time
a shaft of light suddenly descended and an angel
or other heavenly being appeared
and revealed to us what each woman or man must do
to attain divine wisdom in this life and
the hereafter
This is the last time the class will meet
before we disperse to bring the good news to all people on earth

Nothing. When you are not present
how could something significant occur?

Everything. Contained in this classroom
is a microcosm of human experience
assembled for you to query and examine and ponder
This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered

but it was one place
And you weren't here