The Illustrated Encyclopedia of an Imaginary Universe

I’m not a poet. That’s fairly obvious. I don’t claim to be. In fact, for the most part, I hate poetry. I’ve found only a sparse handful of poems that I enjoy, and can only name one poet whom I’ve actually bothered to seriously attempt to consume a volume of his. But occasionally, I’m struck with the odd need to compose in verse. Sometimes, that yearning to be somewhat lyrical manifests itself in gross ways. One attempt last year produced a whole mini-book of quasi-poetic fragments that was well received. Actually, most people were simply baffled.

Since last year’s rhyming puke, I’ve only cursed paper and ink, or sometimes ones and zeroes, with a sprinkling of off-kilter poetry, most of which has never been seen. Yesterday’s little exercise was just that, an exercise. A need to write poetry tempered by the desire to fit them into little haiku-sized pods. I offer no apology or excuse for the crude nature of them. In fact, they were put down in a mere handful of minutes, without much concern or care for content, beauty, or cohesion. Actually, all I was really concerned with was whether they were each capable of walking comfortably in the shoes of haiku.

I’ve never really understood haiku as an art form. When I was younger, I saw the rigidity to be stifling and the results to be disjointed and unfulfilling. Although, on occasion, I’d find one that was entertaining, it was never so compelling as to be remembered. It was like a momentary thought that was dismissed as quickly as it came, never to darken the conscious again. But, a few years ago, at a New Year’s Eve party, an occasional friend quickly composed a wild series of haiku for several party guests. For the first time, I found haiku to not only be charming but casually effective.

I suppose the roots of my hatred for most poetry stems from the fertile soul of capricious and overly dramatic youth. I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone who hadn’t, at one time in their teenage years, not tried to become the poet that no one needs to become. Jim Morrison we were not, Lord Byron was nowhere near us. We weren’t even good enough to be as pitiful and lame as Kerouac’s beat idiocy.

But as much as I love to real and pitch fits against poetry as a concept and execution of creative spirit, I sometimes, with a little guilt, coil down into some small corner to scratch out a few lines of verse as brilliant in conception as any sophomore’s angsty verses pining for love.