Poet-ness

So, I am officially moving closer to poethood. Not enough to quit my job or anything, unfortunately, but I read the last poem I posted on my blog at a coffee house last night. Well, to say I 'read' it is probably an understatement. A friend of mine said he almost fell out of his chair. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not, but I warned everyone, "I can be dramatic," and I had them turn the microphone off. It's just, if I'm going to do something, I've got to do it with everything I've got. So if I'm going to be a poet, I've got to stop complaining about having a job and just write:


I think I'd be a better poet if I was black.
I'd write about my people, my struggles, myself.
And everyone would listen because right now folks are interested.

Or maybe I could be famous, earn my living if I was a scholar.
I'd pick apart the pieces and with my sleight of hand show them,
how to put all the meanings back together again.

But the easy road by far, is to lend a helping hand,
to those wanna-be rock stars rising to the top.
They must be hiring lyricists, if I want to sell myself short.

Poets. Do they really exist anymore?
Do I want to be a dying breed: am I one already?
Perhaps love, or war, or my dying breath, will give me an idea.


Also, I found this interesting:



Introduction to Poetry
by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.



Oh and this is one of my perfect dream houses:






Have a beautiful day.