One Hundred and Second Entry

So I'm not opposed to process poetry by any means. I write in a process, although a rather strange process by which I will alight temporarily on things on my desk or things in movies and books. That's a process, just as any poets is, from Keats to O'Hara and on. But it worries me that "process" is taking over the process. By that I mean that the poet is becoming lost in what he uses. This happens from time to time in all art, the medium over-taking the message. As much as Lichtenstein and Warhol were great in the Pop form, there were plenty of painters who got overwhelmed by the style. In fact, how often have we seen a poet get overwhelmed by formalism? Sonnets and sestinas often sound forced and stiff because the writer isn't up to the challenge of overcoming the challenge of form, and it is a challenge: Here's a form of a poem, let's see you make it your own.

Those poets who are fascinated with the randomness of internet "poetry" or "spam poetry," and I've seen from time to time poems fashioned from pre-randomized words found in an email. This, to me, often is less interesting than other forms of 'found' poetry, and it gets on my nerves. Those poets who choose to use this stuff as ammo for poems should be wary, I think, of the submissiveness such a move implies. Anyone can randomize words; these programs you see in your spam mail prove that computers can do it just as easily as you can. This is a rant and the first of its kind on my blog. It is not directed (honestly!) at anyone, but rather at memories of past such horrible poems and imaginary poets I like to believe are gobbling it up. Anyway, wasting time.

Here's my poem:


OATMEAL

Frozen inside a form of currency.
This is where I step away from yon teacup,
motivating a walk outside and a talk
of our "arrangement." Let's carry bottles
of window cleaner, we'll climb the sides
of buildings and pretend to be busy.
I dropped a key into the drawer of scrolls.
It's not mine to get back, and now I'm in trouble.

They were gathering in the library,
wearing masks, I enjoyed it but I didn't enjoy
seeing it, just the sounds of the fanfare
filled me with the ebullience of the tyrant;
now I'm important and others aren't. Why
don't I tower over you with my fancy rings,
laughing like a Colossus on Google Maps?
The wind outside is driving me bananas.