Why I hated poetry


Until recently (recently being when I started my new English and Creative Writing degree at Hull Uni) I kinda hated poetry. I remember when I did poetry at GCSE I used to sit staring at the page mentally arguing with my teacher and being totally unable to find any hidden meanings within the texts. The reason? There is no hidden meaning! Let’s face it, most poets probably don’t write poems with the intention of adding some hidden meaning, it happens by accident. Now, my Creative Writing Skills lecturer would argue that everything we write is a conscious decision. Bull Shit. I did not mean to make an analogy of cleanliness being akin to godliness, nor did I intend to put a half-rhyme at the end of my animal poem (I still can’t get my head around half-rhymes. Does not compute). It was complete and utter accident. Never once did the analogy cross my mind. However, despite my dislike of analysing poetry, I do actually like reading it.

There’s something about the choice of wording in poetry and the rhythm that I really enjoy. Of course, not all poetry conforms to this prettiness that I have in my head, but if it does sound pretty I’ll read it. And now that I’ve had to write a few poems for my seminars I’ve actually started to enjoy writing poetry, though I’m not very good and it’s a bit like an idiot has attempted a poem. But seen as that’s what happened I’ll share with you a few of my attempts, including my latest attempt at rhyming (which I wrote for the hell of it).

The Farm

There’s noise on the farmyard, they know something’s wrong,

They know that the farmer will be here before long.

He’s bringing them death in a long metal barrel,

The cattle are lowing; they know they’re in peril.

The pigs are all squealing as he passes them by,

But they are not ready; it’s not their time to die.

On goes the farmer, into the coops,

The chickens are hiding, all gathered in groups.

Now run little chicken it’s time that you fled,

‘Cause here comes the farmer to chop off your head.

Then comes the silence, they’re holding their breath,

That sound isn’t silence, that sound is death.

 

A Martian’s View on Religion

 

There is a special kind of medicine, a potion of sorts,

That makes some giddy and others sombre,

 

The effect differs from person to person, though

Children are forbidden this most sacred of medicines.

 

They seem to worship a deity, some large, rolling metal beast,

By leaving offerings on a given day which varies from place to place.

 

There are holy men who tend to it and

Collect the offerings to feed it as it moves in reverse.

 

There is also a second deity, though

This has a mutual agreement with the adults.

 

It is a great box with a round window, and they

Offer tablets and liquids in exchange for clean clothes.

 

I have also, on occasion, seen them offer

Calgon, as an extra treat, to remain in its favour.

 

A Knife in the Heart

We were all condemned together,

Our fates intertwined,

They stood beside me,

Dead but still breathing.

They didn’t know it yet,

Were not aware,

That I had already,

Put blades through their hearts.

 

Neither was I then,

I was too focused,

On the blade in my own heart,

Wondering when death

Would finally claim me

 

How could I have known,

That they would so willingly

Give their lives,

That I might live a little. Longer?

 

I often wonder,

If they would still be here,

Had I confessed to the blade,

That sunk deep in my heart.

My touch is deadly poison,

None are safe from it.

Friends, enemies, lovers.

They all succumb in the end.

All dying in place,

Of the long-since condemned.

Such a great waste;

Such a terrible pity.

 

~ by Jess Wiles on October 24, 2011.

One Response to “Why I hated poetry”

  1. Funny, I hated poetry too when I started my undergrad… And somehow ended up with a Master’s in Creative Writing, Poetry. 😉

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