My form is dismally narrative
The similies – too comparative
Ideas vague and unrelated
Ponderous and overstated.
One gerund puts him in a snit -
Two, violent apoplectic fit.
He fails to understand, to me,
Things happen more continually.
No joy in creativity
My professor hates my poetry.
Though I confess I’m not averse
To crafting a more lyric verse
I have no talent to distill
Fine insight from a twilit rill,
One metaphor I can’t sustain
From poem’s first line to last refrain
I’d add more, with varied uses
My trains all engines, no cabooses.
Though I’m not jealous, Euterpe,
My professor hates my poetry.
Whom I address is most unclear
Too wordy are my words, I fear.
Continuous lines like prose do read
Perhaps at novels I’d succeed.
My errors are irreversible
No knack for the impersonal
A penchant for hyperbole
And misuse of synecdoche.
Penultimate in tragedy -
My professor hates my poetry.
My Latin blood its roots preferred,
I shun the Anglo-saxon word.
Toss these pages to the hounds
I’m too cliche – way out of bounds!
Descriptive galloping stampede
An editor is what I need
Haughtily his words advise,
“Revise, revise, again, revise!”
Though I suspect he fancies me
My professor hates my poetry.
April 6, 2009 at 5:01 pm |
This is funny and entertaining. I usually don’t like poems about writing poetry, it is like “how boring are the lives of poets that they have nothing to write about but the writing process”. But this is funny. I like the repeating line My professor hates my poetry. It is like the villanelle but without the strait jacket of the form, which in itself in the subject matter is ironic and adds so much.
Some lines are inspired:
I’d add more, with varied uses
My trains all engines, no cabooses.
and
I’d add more, with varied uses
My trains all engines, no cabooses.
I’ve seen a lot of cute poems, but few this clever and playful with words.