Poetry is Evil When I started an English course in 2002, my teacher said, “If you want to become a jockey of words and maneuver the English language so that splendor shines through letters aligned in row after row, a poem must be written every day.” “I’m not a poet, and I’ll never be a poet,” I thought that rhymed. “Put music into your words, meter your speech, rhyme the words you use, and you’ll see that even someone like you can be a poet,” my Junior college teacher said. “Why would I try when I’ve never met a poem I enjoyed?” “There’s beauty within everyone that needs to be expressed, and words are the means to make it bloom.” I tried and wrote, “A golden orb slowly comes into view. The world awakens to the tap tapping of my fingers on black & white keys, trying to create beauty with a language that isn’t at all passionate or easy on the lips.” “Not bad for a first try,” my teacher, Miss Sprite said, “But I’m giving you a D. You need to learn that a word like passionate can have many meanings. Such as avid, adoring, obsessive, ardent, fervent, zealous, fanatical, and loving are other words you could’ve used.” So many connotations, my eyes were opened. I tried again, using other language, terms, expressions, terminology, vocabulary or lexis. “Once again. Once more. A second time, I tried to write a poem, a verse, a rhyme, an ode, a sonnet, an elegy, a limerick, a couplet, or maybe an epic. It’ll be about war, conflict, combat, confrontation, hostilities, battles, fighting and finally peace, harmony or serenity.” Proudly I showed Miss Sprite what I had written. The look on her face forewarned of what was to come. “Joe, you may be right about never being a poet. You don’t seem to understand that rhythm gives a poem its sound. There are a lot of ways that rhythm can be used. Many elements in poetry are related to rhythm. This time you get an F for failure to listen to what I said before.” I thought her mistaken, incorrect, off beam, just plain wrong. To show her I knew how to rhyme. I wrote another poem, a verse, a rhyme, an ode, a sonnet, an elegy, a limerick, a couplet, or maybe it was an epic. Showed it to Miss Sprite. Her frown, her puckered brow, her scowl, her glower, her grimacing glare, warned me she wasn’t pleased. “I’ll give you an A for effort, but another F for your failure to understand. You must know there is no one way to write a poem. A foot is a combination of stressed and unstressed syllables in a line of poetry. Meter is the number of feet in a line of poetry and it can have any number of feet.” “What’s a syllable, what’s stressed and unstressed, what’s a foot? I know what a gas or electric meter is, but a poetry meter? Is it something that counts the words or the rhymes, or maybe the syllables used?” Tempted to quit, I tried to make sense from all this gibberish Miss Sprite talked about. I wanted to write one more poem. Unable to decide if the first stanza should be a couplet, a quatrain, or if it should it be a ballad, an epic, an elegy, or maybe a long narrative or sonnet? I’d use rhyme, rhythm, and meter if I decided what they were. Maybe I’d write a poem about Miss Sprite that would influence her thinking? I wrote, when the Devil recruited teachers to spread his awful words, he chose you as his special envoy to make my life hell on Earth. Why, even your name is a derivative of his. You have helped me understand the evil and ugliness of this world. I have sinned because you wanted me to. When the fiend made you his disciple, he enabled you to make me do wrong instead of right and to write words in a line that showed wickedness was the only way. When the imp recruited you to recruit me, to show the rest of the world that his way was the only way, you bargained for a place in hell where you could teach wayward souls that they had done well by following the words you had taught. When that mischievous sprite meets me face to face, I’ll tell the Prince of Darkness that you fell flat on your face when you tried to teach me about poetry and feet. And then he’ll teach you how he loves to put your foot in the fire so he can hear blasphemy pour from your lying mouth. When the Fallen Angel asks me why I say, ‘lying mouth,’ I’ll say, ‘Miss Sprite told me my poetry was good.’ And then I’ll watch him put your tiny white feet to the flames, the conflagration, the inferno, the burning coals, and those are no clichés. “I'm sorry that an F is the lowest mark I have.” She told me, “This poem is gross. I'll have you know; I take a size ten. As far as putting my feet to the flames, I've already arranged for that to happen to you. It was part of the deal." My poetic words burst into dancing flames with a touch of her finger. A smile crossed her face. "I'm sending your words straight to Hell where they belong. Soon I'll send you there too if you dare to write another poem." I started to write, "This poem is for y...” The pen exploded and pierced my heart. It was too late to take back my words. The end http://joedibuduo.com/ http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=joe+DiBuduo