Earl Gray

Earl Gray
"You can argue with me but, in the end, you'll have to face that fact that you're arguing with a squirrel." - Earl Gray

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Ten Rookie Errors Poets Make

Believing sycophants when they blow smoke up your ass.

     Stand downwind a while and see what else they say is shinola.


Thinking poetry uses some rare, difficult-to-master language.

   It does.  It's called "English".







Thinking great material automatically makes great poems.

      By this "reasoning" your local news anchor creates better poetry than Shakespeare.






Ellipses. 

      These are a source of suspense for novice poets and a source of mirth to everyone else.  More experienced poets abuse em dashes instead.







Thinking this poetry shit is easy.

        Actually, it is, if your standards remain as low as they are now.



Thinking writers don't need to know how to write.

       Seriously.  Give your head a shake.






Thinking clichés are shortcuts to meaning.

        They are shortcuts to an editor's trashcan.








Thinking abstractions like "soul", "spirit" or "love" have clear and deep meanings to readers.

       They don't.





Not drawing a conclusion from the lack of paparazzi on your lawn.

    Consider the possibility that the world isn't riveted by your navel.  Here's a plan:  Avoid first person pronouns for the next two years or until you find subjects more interesting than yourself.  Whichever comes first.





Reading fewer than 1,000 poems for every one you write

     Without which you can never hope to understand how boring it is to watch yet one more neophyte make the same errors as every previous newbie.  Over and over.  All the while thinking themselves unique.









1 comment:

  1. Drat, for once I find myself in agreement with you. Yet even the best poets sometimes slip up.

    Tale ellipsis, for instance Here are some glaring examples you'd have sent back with a rejection-slip.
    I'm sure you'll recognise 'em:

    From where you are, you can hear their dreams...
    Some turn this sickness yet might take, ev'n yet...
    While to the left, a tall scalped mountain...
    There I am sitting upright in my wheelchair...
    Permit me voyage, love, into your hands...
    She was an aggravating child...

    Once I came home on leave: and then went west...
    Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming...
    And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...
    Are all the Human Frame requires...
    helped the honey gatherers...
    He can tell you a tale or two...

    Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive no farther tides...
    Well, it just shows how much ... How little ...
    And the only listeners now are ... the rats ...
    By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
    And port is a wine I can well do without...
    Where hushed awakenings are dear...
    Hy, Zy, Hine...

    ReplyDelete

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