Writing Makes Me Pretentious

The other day I read a paper about an interesting topic: Can creative writing really be taught?

I read it for my creative writing class, so of course the answer was yes, yes it can.

And I agree, in part.

But when it comes to poetry... I beg to differ.

It can be logistically taught. You can be taught to read it, and to critique it, and if you're like some of the people in my class you can simply be taught to understand it (seriously, my professor fields some of the dumbest questions in that class. Please read the poem at a higher than elementary school level).

I have found, though, that there are very few people who I actually am okay with them teaching me how to write poetry.

And as of yet, I've only found one person who I will trust to edit my poetry.

My current professor is not that one person.

One of our assignments last week was to write a poem in the shape of a poem that we had read, and (not to brag or anything) mine was pretty great. I prefer writing poetry that hasn't been assigned to me so that the idea is all my own, but I still was pleased with the result.

And while she liked it as well, her comments were some of the stupidest things I've ever read.

Yes, I am aware that poets choose each word specifically. Which is why if you switch a couple of my words around, you don't make it better, you actually make it worse, because I picked those words, and they mean something, and you just totally fucked that meaning up. Congratulations.

Anyway, to avoid sounding like too much of an asshole (oops, too late) I will simply stop here and say that I wrote another poem for her class and since I'm not really planning on making any edits due to her comments anyway, I may as well share it here because I like to pretend that there are people out there who actually like reading my poetry (lol, good one Emma).

Oh, and I haven't thought of a title for it. So, um, if you think of one... you should probably just keep it to yourself.

Jokes you can tell me.

Hell, I might even use it.

If I like you.

And it's not dumb.

Okay seriously though here's my poem.

A soft light paled

by its own shadow

lying across an unknown eye

(as if whispering

a secret

straight into her soul)

While the flickering flame

yellow, then orange,

then golden again,

dances a pattern into her

hair, infinite and fictional,

(a message struck mute

by the passing of time)

as the whispers and words

get lost in the strands

and shuffle toward the split,

fraying ends

until they slip into the shadow

and become infinite once

again.