Frost I Ain't

Doo,
Wah Diddy,
Diddy Dum,
Diddy Doo.

I have a feeling that if I ever go to a poetry slam (I think that's what they're called) I will have to get up and say this poem.  I would love to have all the beatniks nod their beret clad heads and snap their fingers while pretending that I have done something important with my verse.  (See how relevant and hip I am!  Most of my poetry reading knowledge is from Jethro on the Beverly Hillbillies)  I think I'll have to put poetry reading on my 'bucket list' because I am a huge fan of making fun of pretentious snits.  In Starbucks I always ask for a large (when I get something for Sylvia...as far as I'm concerned coffee = yuck) only to hear some, in a nasally voice, complain, "Did you mean grande, venti, fortissimo, a'capella, Pavarotti?" 
"No Skippy, much like Horton (of Hears a Who fame) I meant what I said and I said what I meant...now give me some coffee, here's five hundred cent."

And the rhymes just flow out of me today!  I am inspired!  I am also reminded of a poetry reading that we discussed in one of my creative writing classes in college.  (yes, I have actually taken classes in writing...it's really not nice for you to say, "Really?! And this is the best you can do?!" so loudly...words hurt you know.)  In my class we had quite a varied group of people.  Eclectic you might say.  The teacher assigned many genres to write about and I was ok with that.  Until we got to poetry.  I panicked, not as much as the kid with thirty-three visible piercings and extensive tribal tattoos whose stories always ended up being about some mythical being ravaging a fair maiden...if you get my drift, but still, I panicked. 

Reading poems?  Can do.  Discuss them with any clarity or conviction?  Not so much.  Poetry is just not my thing.  All that symbolism and "this means this" and "that means that," I just want to crawl into a hole and die.  I am a straightforward sort of guy.  I actually told Sylvia, when we were dating, "I don't do hints well.  If you want me to know something, write it on a board and smack me in the face."  Have I mentioned that my nickname is "flatnose"... and that Sylvia is extremely literal?  But I digress.  I remember a scene in the movie Weird Science.  The whole house is in chaos, magical things are happening all over the place, and a missile forms and pushes it's way through the room and out the roof.  As it stops growing and the camera lingers on the missile, a white dove flutters down and lands on the nose of the missile.  Then, and I love this, you hear a bell, "dingggg."  It's like the movie makers are saying, "We know this is a movie for teenagers...pay attention and see symbolism...NOW...OK, back to the silliness."

I would like to say, I do know what a white dove symbolizes, but I have no idea what it means in the big picture of the movie!  What?  It's a peaceful missile?  Don't worry, be happy?  No countries were bombed in the making of this scene?  I have no idea!  Just tell me stuff...and then feed me a sandwich.  I'm a simple guy.

Well all that rambling has led into what I really wanted to talk about today.  My creative writing teacher loved to have us all read our writing.  She called it "publishing" but I called it terrifying.  I was not a comfortable reader.  Turns out, though, that I got so many compliments on my voice that I soon got over the fear and was comfortable with it.  But today is not about something I wrote, but about something a grandmotherly (it's a word) classmate wrote.  The teacher led us into her reading with a special, "I want us all to pay close attention to this.  We will be discussing it after she is done."

The poem started, my brain shut down, I tried to figure out if there really was a difference between red and green M & M's, and then she was done.  Poem over, I tried to look like I was contemplating her work seriously.  The class loved it!  We literally spent most of the class having people say things like, "I think the use of the clouds to show sorrow was brilliant!"
"The changing of the seasons brought tears to my eyes.  This is an important piece."
"It brought up images of family members I've lost.  Can I get a copy of that?"

All the while the author sat silently, the rule of the teacher, not showing any emotion at all.  Merely taking it in with a nod every now and then.  The teacher let this love fest go on for about half an hour, and luckily never called on me because my comment would have been something like, "Seriously, why are these things different colors?"

When the conversation waned (told you I went to college) the teacher asked the author, who was probably in her mid sixties, to tell what she thought the poem meant to her.  Her response was priceless! 
"It's a load of crap!" she laughed, "I hate poetry so I just put words on a page to finish an assignment.  She (teacher) made me do it and then wanted me to sit silently while everyone discussed it!"
At this point I was out of my chair pumping my fist in the air and shouting, "YES!! Woof, Woof, Woof!  Brilliant!"

So my point is, I guess, that poetry is fine to read and it can be important until another person reads it too...and then the fireworks start.  I mean who knows for sure?  Maybe Robert Frost was working for the zoning commission when he wrote about fences and good neighbors.  As far as poetry is concerned, I only need to know one thing...where can I get a Jethro-like beret to wear while I read my poem?