Poets and Poetry

I’ll admit, I am not a fan of classic poetry. Sonnet 18, Shakespeare’s famous poem, starts

with, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and temperate.” Ok, not bad. Then a few lines later, “Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade”, and I’m out. I can’t take it. It feels pretentious and I have no idea what it means.

I (try to) read modern poetry that gets published in the current magazines and literary

journals, and many of it is similar to Sonnet 18, just with modern terminology. When I read these poems, I admire the schoolmaster in the movie, Pink Floyd: The Wall, where ‘Pink’ in his youth is writing in his journal instead of doing his classwork. The schoolmaster grabs the book, peruses it, and declares to the rest of the class, “Poems everybody. The laddy reckons himself a poet.” As the other children laugh and scoff, the school master reads aloud, “Money get back, I’m all right Jack, keep your hands off my stack. New car, caviar, four-star daydream, think I’ll buy me a football team” and then tells him, “Absolute rubbish, get on with your work”, and smacks his hand with a ruler.

While I believe that Pink Floyd’s lyrics to Money is lyrical gold and not ‘absolute rubbish’

as the schoolmaster claims, I admit that poetry is subjective, like any art form, and there’s no

correct way to write it, yet there are a couple of ways to approach it. One way is to write for poetry magazines and publications which are edited by, wait for it, poets, which is why I believe many poets write poetry for other poets, to get the proverbially pat on the back and feel special when they’re pretentious poems get published instead of getting rejected like, uh, some other poets I know.

The second way to approach writing poetry is my preferred way; to write in a style that is

poetic, rhythmic, and maybe a little mystical, yet is appreciated and enjoyed by most non-poets; or in other terms, normal people who may have read Shakespeare or other classical poets in school and decided that they get more enjoyment from reading bumper stickers.

So, if you’re like me and classical poets create an involuntary eye-roll, yet you enjoy a

good story, here’s a Baxter Black poem to help set things right.

The West

They don’t call it Death Valley for nuthin’

And coyotes don’t make a good pet

But livin’ out here with the griz and the deer

you pretty much take what you get.

And the Rockies have shoulders like granite

They’re big and they make their own rules

So take what you need but you better pay heed

‘Cause the mountain don’t tolerate fools.

And the wind is the moan of the prairie

That haunts and bedevils the plains

The soul stealin’ kind that can fray a man’s mind

Till only his whimper remains.

You can stand in the canyon’s cathedral

Where water and sky never rest

And you know in your bones that the meek, on their own

Will never inherit the West.

It’s wild and it’s wide and it’s lonesome

Where the dream of first blood still survives

And it beckons to those who can bid adios

To the comfort of 8 to 5 lives.

So come all you brave caballeros

Cinch up and reach down inside

Till you feel the heat, then take a deep seat

‘Cause the West, boys, she ain’t broke to ride.