Yes, you. Take your Stanzas in Meditation and get the hell out of my life. Stop filling my impressionable young mind with this whatever-it-is. If I ever see another pronoun that’s not instantly flanked by dozens of colorful adjectives, nouns, adverbs and verbs and everything else that I can’t remember the last time I saw them, it’ll be entirely too soon. And if you go bringing that “or that which one which or” up in here, I’m gonna get my shotgun.
Yes, I’m laying the blame on you. Not me, who doesn’t give two bags of llama shit about poetry and would happily spend the rest of my life devouring novels without feeling I’m missing anything. Not me, who clearly doesn’t understand what the fuck “Write a short essay on how you can read Stein so as to take something from it” means, and hasn’t gone to ask the professor. Not me, who so far has written three lines of a skinny anorexic worm of type. Not me, who is posting on the SDMB rather than doing any actual work.
Besides, every time I write something that resembles poetry, even though I’ve never spent longer than half an hour on one, even though I clearly don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, even though I could be writing the Collected Anthology of Vogon Literature for all I know, it gets better feedback than the short stories I slave over, which inevitably get torn apart. No, I’m not bitter towards poetry.
So I blame Gertrude Stein. Yeah. If Stanzas in Meditation hadn’t existed, I wouldn’t be in this mess right now.
In resolution, after this semester ends:
-No more poetry.
-No more late nights agonizing about how I just haven’t found “the right way to read poetry.” THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY.
-And definitely no more mustachioed, jackbooted lesbians.
well, okay, I may make a few concessions.