For Better or Verse

I have a confession – I never really got poetry.

The only poetry book I have ever bought (apart from The Liverpool Scene in the 60s) is the collected works of Private Eye’s E J Thribb. I particularly like his tribute to the late Pope John Paul where Keith’s mum suggest the next two Popes should be called Paul and Ringo.

I have only tried to write two poems – one a koan about the Zen Archers (their target, the Bull) and one for the late Stanley Chapman’s birthday. Lyrics, on the other hand, I don’t have problems with.

Perhaps its being on the spectrum, but I feel words far more when there is a melody underneath them than when I just read them. Or perhaps it is a thing about constraints – I can write more easily if I need to adhere to a rhyme and scansion.

I am listening as I write to Ken Nordstrom’s word jazz. I love the Beats and can see the chain between Nordstrom, them and mid period Tom Waits – all of which I appreciate (although I can also see the potential for parody, like the Bonzo’s Big Shot: nice…).

This lacunae is nothing to do with the language or emotional freight of the words – put it in prose and I love it. I can also appreciate it if there is humour running through it and love comic monologues.

Perhaps it goes back to school – every English teacher I have ever had has ranked poetry above prose. There is a snobbery within literary criticism that seems to downplay prose, however rich its language. Yet a finely crafted sentence can carry all of the power, meaning, and emotional impact as a good sestina. It may be that this derives from what has gone before in the story, but in many cases you can take it out of that context and it still works as well.

Or perhaps its just jealousy because I can’t do it myself.