My bud Zen posted some of his poems, which are very thoughtful and, to me, evocative.
Uh, you have to click the link in the article there to get to his pomedome.
Anyway, I'm a horrendous poet. When I was in elementary school I thought I was pretty good at it, but that's when just getting the rhyme and meter right was enough to get an A.
I love to read poetry, and don't do it often enough. I love cummings, Hughes, and Dickinson. Some Whitman and Keats and others, but some of that's been hard for me. I bought some Borges, Neruda, Lorca and Thomas. Now that's some cool stuff. I've started buying poetry collections by peeps I've never heard of because, well, it feels like branching out.
One thing I've learned through this reading is that I don't know shit about poetry. I don't know what makes this stuff good poetry. I find that I truly enjoy the experience, whether it seems sad or happy or somewhere else on the spectrum, but I don't know why.
I know when I've tried writing poetry it has been, to my ear, complete trash. I don't even know what I'm trying to do except sound like the stuff I've read. I never arrive anywhere close.
Therefore I've decided to write a pome about how crappy my pomes are. And I'm not gonna capitalize anything or use punctuation, just to show how hip I am.
my pomes suck
leaving little pieces
wedged in the corner
crashing loose in
an empty oil drum
down the hill
they crash into
a group of
who are smart
who understand pomes
but not mine
its the same when
all noise and
clamor and broken
Well, there you have it folks. I'm gonna go on Monster.com and see if they have a section for Poet Laureate. Thank you, thank you very much.