how to undo a lie without taking it back

If you read my last post [I psychically know you did], you probably read this poem, which I turned into my poetry class and for which I received exactly what I was expecting. A thorough trouncing of UMMMMMMs in the oral discussion and mixed reviews in the written discussion.

It was either a) THIS POEM IS BRILLIANT or b) I DON'T GET IT. WHERE'S THE STORY?

And [thankfully thankfully because this is what I had been waiting for all week] one THIS DOESN'T RHYME. I ONLY LIKE POETRY THAT RHYMES.

The rule in poetry class discussion is that the poet cannot say anything. She cannot respond or explain.


Which means that (as badly as I wanted to pull handfuls of hair out of my head and scatter them around our circular discussion table like easter eggs) I could not say THIS IS NOT A NARRATIVE POEM -- NOTHING HAPPENS -- THERE IS NO STORY.


My favorite FAVORITE [I mean THE WORST] part was when my poetry professor, Ralph, gave us his poetic philosophy, which went like this: "Each poem is like a little bubble. And it's the poet's job to convince the reader that everything in the bubble is true. That the bubble is a real world. If the reader must come out of that bubble during any point in his or her reading, the poem fails."


At this point I was digging a hole under the table and hoping to fall through and land in some other classroom. Ralph says: poetry = genre novels + crappy films + pop music. With salt on top. Kat dies.

I cannot wait until our midterm conference when I can finally tell him how wrong he is about everything. And especially how I will jump off of a building if I ever write a poem that is a bubble. If I ever write a poem that doesn't pop at least twelve bubbles. And then stomp on the kid blowing them.


So there was that.


And then today was wonderful. It was warm, so I painted a picture and made chocolate chip cookies. I went shopping with a friend and bought things that I don't need.

Tomorrow I need to accomplish two things:
1) Take my very dirty long white coat to the dry-cleaners
2) Stand in line at the post office to apply for a passport

Because I'm tired of walking around in a dirtyish coat and because I'm going to spend six weeks in Italy this summer.


This week the poetry assignment is to mold three sessions of automatic writing into one poem. I never thought that taking a class on something I love so much could make me so miserable.



Also, I've been wondering. What ever happened to the Chapbook Review?