Well, Boss—

With an intro like that, we’ve no doubt managed to incite the rage and fire, set the hair on end, of every Poetry 101 / English instructor and wannabe Sylvia Plath oven-poetry writer in existence. Good start.

Your position is not without notice. The eminence of poetry composition,
execution and interest level delivered
today, does not encourage many readers—especially, casual readers—to continue beyond the first line…if even that far. Watch the eyes glaze over when poetry is mentioned, the universal look of fear and loathing.

What can be expected, with the usual, well battered, dragged from the mire writing suggestion: write what you know. Instructors using this sad-ass idiom, at any level, deserve to have their hair yanked on end…possibly ignited. How many students (let’s talk, middle and high school; in this day-in-age, even university level writing students)—how many have enough life experience to compose beyond pimples and backseat encounters. For crying out loud, thirty-year old's are still living with mommy and daddy.

That’s enough to get us in deep, for now.

Not a big Chas. Bukowski fan, his drinking and whoring phase is simply an extension of that, pimples and backseat encounters level of development, mentioned earlier, with an over-abundance of obtuse grit, slime and expletives slathered on. He is, indeed, hard-hitting; a real gut-punch writer. But…I will leave you with one from Buk’s more insightful places: No. 6. A fine example of street-grade narrative. Take a look. It’s worth the read. If the net will not yield it for you, go to:

Poetry 180 a Turning Back to Poetry: An anthology selected by Billy Collins.

Write well…and often,  Max tdc