More people would learn from their mistakes if they weren't too busy denying them.

As I sat skimming through my copy of Poetry International 13/14 searching, I felt futilely, for a poem that would catch my interest and keep it, I found, much to my surprise, not just a poem, but pages of poetry that did just that. This most recent edition of Poetry International contains within its bindings works that even the most unenthusiastic reader of poetry can enjoy. There are poems that speak to all types of people, to all experiences great and small, from the bite of a mosquito to a couple making love. I enjoyed what I read, and could not have been more surprised because of it. I chose this poem to share with you because, of them all, this one fits in with a genre of fiction I readily admit I enjoy, romance.

It’s Cool

            By Lauren Wattel

We were driving each other mad again, so

We left the highway and found an empty space

            by the ruins of a house. I stroked your chest

and straddled your lap; you kissed me with a low

moan, your skin gold in the light; I cupped your face

between my palms like an artifact; you moved

            my hips; and when you pressed your lips to my breast

you gasped. There was a man outside the window.

“Its cool,” the man said, “just find another place

            to do it.” Then he tipped his hat, unimpressed

with the exhibition. Our mood now improved

dramatically, we waved to the man and drove

back to the highway feeling restored, well-loved,

glistening like two jewels in a secret trove.

            Poetry spans all genres. It can be dramatic or funny. It can tell a story of love or hate, be mysterious and suspenseful, or mythical and mystical. Poetry has romance and danger and adventure. Shakespeare is a poet, an obvious and commonly known fact you may say, but for some reason I chose to disconnect him from the form. I have often said that poetry was of no interest to me. I told people I hated poetry and I believed it, but how can you hate what you don’t really know? The answer is, you can’t. So poetry, I admit it, I owe you an apology… and here it is.

Poetry,

             I have wronged you. All these years I have neglected you, belittled you, and maligned you to all my friends. You were like that kid who was different from everybody else. The misunderstood one that I never tried to get to know, that I never spoke with to see if maybe, possibly, we had some common interest. I rejected you before I really knew you and for that I am truly sorry. I feel as though I’ve missed out on what could’ve been years of great friendship, for you see, I’ve learned the error of my ways. We do have a common interest. You do have something to say that I want to hear. I was wrong to judge you by form alone. Its what’s inside that counts and in your work I found something to connect too. I hope that you can forgive my reprehensible behavior, and if so, I look forward to a long and happy friendship with you.

Repentantly Yours,

Susan Todd

Constant repetition carries conviction.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry. It was repetitive, mind-numbing, eyes-glazing-over-due-to-sheer-boredom poetry.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry. It was repetitive, mind-numbing, eyes-glazing-over-due-to-sheer-boredom poetry. His poetry brought to mind an elementary school game that I do not so fondly remember.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry. It was repetitive, mind-numbing, eyes-glazing-over-due-to-sheer-boredom poetry. His poetry brought to mind an elementary school game that I do not so fondly remember. The “I went on vacation and in my suitcase I put (insert one item here followed by whatever item the 20-odd students before said they put in their suitcase when they went on vacation) game.”

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry. It was repetitive, mind-numbing, eyes-glazing-over-due-to-sheer-boredom poetry. His poetry brought to mind an elementary school game that I do not so fondly remember. The “I went on vacation and in my suitcase I put (insert one item here followed by whatever item the 20-odd students before said they put in their suitcase when they went on vacation) game.” It was funny at first, but as the minutes went by, how many I couldn’t say as the cottage lacks a clock, it became slow torture, his voice droning on and on, the repeated sentences running together into one long line of blah blah blah….

Are you still with me? It’s maddening isn’t it? I should’ve warned you to skip to the end. Just be happy I kept it to one page. The reader went through multiple pages before the droning finally stopped.

The last person to read was a published fiction writer named Katherine Towler. She read an excerpt from the third book in her Snow Island trilogy. The series follows two generations of two families and explores how each family and the surrounding community is affected by war. In this particular novel the characters are coping with the repercussions of the Gulf War of the early 1990s. She read the first chapter and then skipped 150 pages and read an excerpt from a later chapter. Her writing was descriptive, but not overly so; her words brought the setting to life and her characters, with whom our time was short, were intriguing men and women whose stories seem worthy of further exploration.

I may not have a great appreciation for poetry, but I do have a fondness for fiction and I left this reading with the desire to finish the story that Towler began. I will have to make sure to add it my list, the ever-growing list of books that must be read. Maybe one day I’ll add in some works of poetry as well… I have always had the idea that one day I’d make it through all the works of Shakespeare… but before I do all of this I must admit, I’m also a little curious about Gertrude and how her first date in five years went.

Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.

I'm a fan of making lists. As I write them out, I take the time to really think of all the tasks that need to be accomplished, writing the items or chores out in the neatest print, so that as I cross off each finished task I can admire not only my own perfect handwriting, but also my own sense of responsibility in finishing what I had set out to...

You don't actually believe any of this do you? Did you know that gullible isn't actually in the dictionary?

I  AM a fan of lists, that much is true, but finishing one? That rarely happens. My grocery lists stay crumpled in my purse, forgotten in that black abyss, as I meander through food aisles, wondering what I meant to buy. My to-do list items remain uncrossed and my homework assignments stay scrawled somewhere within the pages of a notebook I don't think to open until the day of class, consequently also the day that assignment was supposed to be done. I make lists with the best of intentions, and someday I plan on finishing one, or three... a certain specific three.

A few years ago I printed out three lists, each having to do with a specific literary genre. The lists include the one hundred greatest classic, fantasy and science-fiction novels ever written, according to the web site they came from. I have always loved to read but I readily admit that my taste in literature tends to lean towards fluff. I have read fun, flirty, and simple feel-good novels that have entertained or inspired me, but never challenged my mind in any constructive way... except, of course, the aforementioned accrual of polysyllabic vocabulary.

This last summer I finally started crossing works off the classics list and I feel a sense of accomplishment every time my pen slashes across that page. The Picture of Dorian Gray, Little Women, and  Wuthering Heights, these are just some of the titles on the list, all stories I've been familiar with but had never before explored on my own. I am now truly addicted to these great works of literature and fluff has lost its easy and pleasant charm. It make take me years to read every book shown on these lists, but its an endeavor worthy of my time and dedication.

So Goodbye random Duke of This and Duchess of that, I've enjoyed my time with you, but I feel its time we take a break... and hello Edmond Dantes, I look forward to planning your revenge with you... I'm great at making lists.

More matter with less art.

I am currently in a Comics and Graphic Narrative class at my university and it has opened my eyes to something I never took seriously before, comic books. I used to read Archie comics when I was in elementary school. I would pick them up and start to read them as we waited in line in the grocery store and my mother would buy them for me, a three-dollar entertainment. The comic strip was a staple read as well. My parents would read the newspaper and I would pull out the funnies, less interested in the news of the day then I was in what new sarcastic comment Garfield had to give John, or what mishap Hagar the Horrible was involved in.

Batman, Superman, Ironman, Spiderman, the entire spectrum of the X-Men- I knew these characters, but I never read their stories. My brothers read the comics and together we watched the cartoons. The tales of love and hate and hope and redemption fascinated me, but I was never interested in reading the comics these characters were spawned from. I admit that there are some art forms I reject simply because my brothers were interested in them. Comics or graphic novels fall into that category.

I recently read Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight for my class and we watched Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of it and I sat there and thought- why have I not done this before?? Every time I watch a movie based on a book I always think, this is a good movie but I bet the book is better. I’ve never thought that about movies based on comics. I always watched the movie and thought about the cartoon. Until now I have never thought about going back to the true source of the characters, the comic books. I’ve now realized the error of my thinking. There are so many stories out there that I have missed out on, characters whose depths I haven’t even come close to discerning. I have a lot of catching up to do.