Read my latest flash, Venison, at 52|250.

I’ve heard so many times about the necessity of taking risks in poetry (check out the anti-theses in the first issue of Anti- to get an idea of how common this is) that I’d almost find it refreshing if I were to run across someone who militantly opposed risk in verse. I’d almost appreciate it if I heard someone advocate the writing of safe, bland poems. The only real problem is that I would likely be unable to read their poetry, as my mind runs away screaming when faced with something it finds uninteresting (I only occasionally got in trouble for this when I was in school).

What most recommends it to me in theory, however, is the paradox of it.  To advocate writing what is safe and easy would be to risk losing (or never gaining) respect, fame, and the meager fortune to which poets may aspire (I’ve earned enough from poesy to buy a few burritos).  It would be to risk reduced publishing opportunities. Note that this only true for those who explicitly advocate safe poetry; if readers can pretend a poem is risky and gain the satisfaction of being challenged without actually feeling uncomfortable, they’re quite likely to approve of the piece.

I think I’d like to do the opposite of that: to write poems that seem simple and easy but that stay inside a person like a parasite or sand grain in an oyster, irritating the organism and gathering nacre until a pearl (preferably baroque). To a certain degree, I’m going back to Dickinson’s deceptive simplicity with this, only with the addition of the twists that have developed since then– and a few more personal– to encourage strangeness in what develops within those who read my scattered poems.

Related posts:

1. Thursday Read Write Poem

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