My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [95]
I do have to give the poets we studied credit for taking the effort to make their stuff rhyme. Seriously, there are only about seventy words in the English language that don’t pair up with something else, so if this is an issue, simply don’t end the line with “twelfth” or “almond” or “orange” or “penguin.” Easy-freaking-peasy.
Point?
Any poetry I’ve stumbled across since AP English comes from bloggers who occasionally take a break from spilling all the intimate details of their lives to categorize their pain in verse. Should you think I didn’t secretly mock them before, you should see how hard I laugh when gifted with one hundred free-form lines about the dead daffodils of despair, with no regard to cadence or meter. It’s all I can do not to leave notes in their comments sections, saying stuff like, “Iambic pentameter, bitch!” and “Would a couple of couplets kill you?” and “Hey, e. e. cummings called—he wants his lowercase letters back.”
I’m laughing as I recount my past brushes with poetry to Stacey on our way to lunch at Lula Café.
“The way I see it,” I tell her, “I’m giving myself a get-out-of-jail-free pass on whatever activity seems the most unpleasant. I hate poetry; ergo, I get a pass.”
Stacey cuts her eyes away from the road to glance at me. “You realize this is exactly why you have to study poetry now.”
“Um, no,” I reply.
“You say you want to challenge yourself, and poetry presents a challenge, so why are you completely dismissing it out of pocket? I’d be willing to bet there are poets you’d enjoy. Poetry’s one of those things people write off without giving it a chance because it can seem boring and scary.”
I nod vigorously. “Exactly my point.”
“You don’t have to embrace it all; rather, it’s that you should keep looking until you find the piece that speaks to you. Poetry’s like anything else you’ve worked on—you haven’t loved every opera, but once you found Carmen, your whole perspective changed.”
“Your voice of reason intrigues me, and I would like to subscribe to your newsletter,” I mutter.
“You’re saying you’ve never read anything that appealed to you? Nothing? I don’t believe that.”
She’s got me there. “I’m okay with Robert Frost,” I admit. “You sort of know what to expect when you read him. Like, he’s totally reliable and unswerving. He’s kind of the McDonald’s of poetry; I mean, his poems aren’t the best burger you’d ever eat, but they’re consistently tasty.” I think about some of my favorite work, like “Fire and Ice” and “The Road Not Taken.” “Or no, wait, he’s not that pedestrian. He’s more like . . . the In-N-Out Burger of poetry.”
Stacey says nothing, so I continue. “Also, I always connected with ‘If ’ by Rudyard Kipling. Back when I was my sorority’s rush chairman, I memorized all the words. When we’d all be up late getting ready for the next day’s party, and everyone would be bitching about how hard I was making them work, I’d quash their complaints by reciting stuff. I’d be all, ‘If you can make a heap of all your winnings and risk it all on one turn of pitch and toss and lose and start again at your beginnings and never breathe a word about your loss.’ ”
“They hated you.” This comes out as a statement, not a question.
“Absolutely!” Years later, their animosity is still a source of pride. All good rush chairmen are despised.
“Maybe you need a mentor?” Stacey suggests. “I didn’t really know which poets I loved until I studied under the resident poet at my college.”
I bark with laughter. “Your college had a resident poet? Ha! How often did his place get tee-peed? Daily? Hourly? Did he ride around campus on a recumbent bike with a jaunty orange safety flag flapping in the breeze? Did he carry a valise? Did he wear an ascot? Or was he a she, and did she wear long hippie skirts and never shave her legs, ever?”
“I bet your school had a resident poet, too.”
“Doubtful.”
“Not doubtful. I bet they have one, and you just don’t know about it.”
“Well,” I muse, “if my school does have a resident poet, he’s not to be found in the