Friday, July 16, 2010

I... poet?

After reading Stuart Ross's "Buying Cigarettes for the Dog," I started wondering what literary forms I was missing out on. The result of this wondering was less spectacular than might have been--out of the entire grandiose universe of possibilities, that's saying--but more so than expected. I polished up an old flash fiction piece, and transmogrified a half-a-short-story into a full poem.

The story/poem in question was inspired by this insane dream I had one time. No, I mean, it was insane. You're probably thinking, "Ben, I have some pretty crazy dreams. One time..." No. Shut up. This dream, it was so nuts that I both had to write a story about it and could not, physically, do so. Other dreams, they lend themselves to the page. But this one... the insanity of it did not permit a prosaic re-telling.

Thus the story lay half finished and dormant in my "TO DO" folder until I read "Cigarettes" and tangentially decided, heck, why not turn it into a poem? Hence I did. And, consequently, realized I am no poet.

It was a lot of fun to try writing a poem; I haven't done so since I was a depressed/moody/romantic sixteen year old. But, alas, now I'm old and those feelings are withered and my verse lacks the passion it requires to be truly poignant. Also: I like rhymes too much, and there's nothing worse than sounding kitschy.

So the story/poem--the idea, as it were--is back in the "TO DO" folder. Perhaps I can make it a poetic piece of prose or a prosaic piece of poetry. Maybe just... proetry. Whatever happens, I've just got to figure out how to really make a tale out of it.


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