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chew me up and spit me out, chew me up again, rewrite, rewrite,
rewrite, rewrite, rewrite,
I hate this part but I love the taste
mother said my food don't waste
so even my finished product is never finished in the end and all the parts that I threw up become entrees of their own one day,
Oh God what am I say, I was in lala land,
Anyway very nice visual James, keep up the good work. lol. I love this one too anyway. Thank you
This is a really good poem. It is spooky. It is not at all what I expected by the title. I was shocked. But that is what makes the poem so great. You have one misspelling in the first line that I saw. Wite is needs to be write.
Toni Sweeney
I had a long talk with Roger about the whole issue and mystery of what a poem is "supposed to be" and how unanswerable this may be in the Arts, especially Poetry. It's a fascinating topic. I think as readers and writers, we all may complicate things, looking for the "answer" to the poem, as if it's a riddle, which it need not be.
On the other hand, I agree that a poem needs a purpose, and that purpose needs to be communicated effectively to the reader , even if that purpose or message is somehat obsure or ambiguous and I may or may not have succeeded here.
This work is simply about the danger of regurgitating what one is "taught" when one risks taking a class or adopting one's style, instead of using classroom teaching as a tool to find one's own; thus the poem's title.
You are sooo complicated some times! ;-) But, if I'm getting this right....then yes, I feel the same way. Thoughts in your head you cant quite put on paper, use in your life, or any meaning to anything. They just linger. But call me stupid. Please.
Well, taken from your title, which should be an indication of what or what isn't the poem about, I must surmise that Poetry 101 is basic in concept. To write in bite-sized chunks is intended for the uninitiated, since the full concept of the work intended may or may not be fully understood by the critical public. To have one's thoughts masticated to a pulp, to me shows the critical aspect of one's interpretations. A gelatinous substance is a substance not solid nor liquid, thus becoming unstable. There is plenty of instability in this piece, since at the end, we remain with a heart that is totally minced and mashed, spit back on "her," finest plate. In the beginning of this poem, the I is the focal point, but at the end, "her," becomes the focal point. Are we to infer from obscurity who, "her," is? Must we pull it out of a hat or something? To surmise, this poem left me in a gelatinous state, neither here nor there, but shaky as to its meaning and purpose.
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