Why is it so cold in here?

I don't get it; I turned the heat on as soon as I got in, about four hours ago. So the room should've warmed up by now. But it doesn't seem to have done so.

Well, maybe it's just me.

Brace yourself. Informational overload is nigh.

Somewhat to my surprise, I ended up reconsidering this assessment. This was spurred on partly by desperation -- not having anything better to submit -- and partly because others didn't think the stuff was as bad as I thought it was.

And so I submitted revised versions of both "Anyway, I Still Don't Have a Poem," and the one about my grandfather, in that order. And while I still don't much like the way the latter turned out, the fact remains that the rest of my class -- and the professor -- disagreed, finding it to be the best work I turned in all semester. Frankly, I'm finding it hard to see that as much more than confirmation of the fact that I and the rest of the class really aren't on the same wavelength at all, but let that pass for now, 'cause it's the other one I want to discuss here.

The poem was originally written as I went along, while on a MUD. The name of the character I was conversing with has been deleted, to protect the innocent. Or the guilty, depending on how you choose to look at it. This version is the least important for present purposes, but it's presented for whatever historical and/or amusement value it might have, here.

(In editing the thing for its appearance here, I'm reminded that, in fact, I rambled on at greater length in that conversation, including some bits that didn't look any better the next morning, or even the next month. This would include my aborted ode to Financial Aid, entitled "FAFSA THIS!" So it's not as if everything I type miraculously turns out to have some literary value...)

I then cleaned it up a bit, correcting spelling errors, and polishing the verse paragraph about the protagonist and antagonist, creating the first draft. I showed the resulting work to a few people, who seemed to like it.

Most notably, Phebe liked it. I have a great deal of respect for Phebe's literary judgement, and I'm aware that this is the sort of poem on which she's more qualified to comment than I am. Or, at least, it's more up her alley. She gets along with modernism and imagery and stuff much better than I do, y'see; I prefer more straightforward writing.

That, whether I liked it or not, I seemed to have a halfway decent bit of verse in a style I didn't particularly like seemed ironic, and perhaps a bit of cosmic revenge against all the ranting I've done about a certain red wheelbarrow and such, but I wasn't going to argue.

Well, I stand corrected. After looking at the results of her changes, I had to grant that her version of the first draft (hereafter referred to as "Phebe's Remix") reads better than my version of that draft. Here it is:

Symbols, yes.
Both the characters on the page,
and the characters in the story,
and even a white whale--
no, that's been done to death.
That's been done FOR death.
That's done, dun, donut,
dallying in the dark alleys of the night.

And, yes, perhaps rhymes,
at times,
but not in any regular pattern, of course;
can't have any method in the madness.
Better to have madness in the method,
or at least act like it.
No divine chime of the sublime here, buster;
if you're in that line,
take it outside.

And meter?
Sure, put a coin in the hat
and see where it'll get you.

But that's not really enough,
is it?

No, you want blood, sweat, and tears,
but not the rock group,
and not anything cliche as that.
You want the ginger halo of the sun above the brownstones on Delancy Street,
and the hint of silver in her raven hair.
You want the cobwebs in the corner,
the old, dusty cookbooks crowding the shelf,
the dim light of the florescent bulb
casting shadows through the broken wicker chair back,
and the protagonist fucking the antagonist's brains out on the linoleum floor.

Well, maybe I don't have it in me.
Maybe I haven't experienced enough of life.
Maybe I'm not ready,
or willing,
to confront my feelings. Maybe I'm not remotely visual.
Maybe I like emotional detachment, ever think of that?

Maybe life is hard enough to deal with in REAL LIFE
without having to put it into another damn bit of verse.

Anyway,
I still don't have a poem.

Anyway, before getting the above, I'd revised what I had one more time and submitted the following draft to the workshop:

I have symbols, yes. Two sorts of characters (the ones I'm writing about, and with), a metal dish, a white whale—no, that's been done to death. Done for death, damn it. That's done, dun, a dull donut, decadently dallying in the dark alleys of the night.

And, yes, perhaps rhymes, at times, but not in any regular pattern. No divine chime of the sublime here, buster; if you're in that line, take it outside.

And meter? Sure, put a coin in the hat and see where it'll get you.

But that's not really enough, is it?

No, you want blood, sweat, and tears, but not the rock group, and not anything that cliché, anyway. You want the ginger halo of the sun above the brownstones on Delancy Street, and the hint of silver in her raven hair.

You want the cobwebs in the corner, the old, dusty cookbooks crowding the shelf, the dim light of the florescent bulb casting shadows through the broken back of the wicker chair, and the protagonist fucking the antagonist's brains out on the linoleum floor.

Well, maybe I don't have it in me. Maybe I haven't experienced enough of life. Maybe I'm not ready, or willing, to confront my feelings. Maybe I'm not remotely visual. Maybe I like emotional detachment, ever think of that?

Maybe life is hard enough to deal with in REAL LIFE without having to put it into another damn bit of verse.

Anyway, I still don't have a poem.

I'm up way too late now, so I think I'll save the analysis and stuff for Sunday's entry, assuming I haven't already lost all of you. Do stay tuned...