Today I ate by myself at a restaurant for the first time ever.
Snuggled up in a dim corner of Little Asia, I ordered just about the most unoriginal meal of sesame chicken, spring rolls, and hot and sour soup. For lack of anything to do and not wanting to be at risk for staring loser-ishly off into space, I pretentiously took out some history reading while I waited for my food. To my amusement, I discovered that our reading for this week included a collection of World War I inspired poems. I sat there pretending to be deeply engrossed in my material all the while wishing I had ordered take-out so that I could be eating at home in front of my computer instead. Unable to bear the onslaught of more loser-ish thoughts, I actually began reading the poems...really reading them.
By the time my food arrived, I had finished about half of my reading. I felt slightly annoyed; one, for the food that interrupted my fascinating read, and two, for the eventual analysis I would have to write for these poems.
What's worse than writing poetry analysis papers? The mind-numbing task of having to read your own pretentious work afterward.
Poetry is poetry because of the emotions the elicit from the human heart. Describing what I feel or how someone is supposed to feel render the poem worthless in my eyes. Add onto that judgment, arrogance, and some bs about the quality of imagery and tone...it just makes me want to barf. Oh, the agony!
Just read the damn poem.
