Poetry Thursday: Avoid the Kitchen, that's where the poems are

This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday is What We Avoid. As poets, writers, people in general.

I avoid myself. The sound of my own inner voice. I isolate myself for a bit of quiet, though the quiet drives me back to writing lest that pesky inner voice grow too loud. My head too full. My heart too empty.

That's where poetry comes in.

It empties my heart, like cleaning the lint trap of the clothes dryer.

While "cleaning", I try my best to avoid A) Ovary Poetry, B) Weirdo Beatnik Poetry, C) Greeting Card Poetry, and D) Refrigerator Poetry.

Example of A :

The life force of my body
Eggs
Something stupid about love and bon-bon’s
All hail womankind!

I have no idea...mush-mash and such.

Example of B :

DeaTH chAses Me
To SEe
what My EyeS hear
The Pain, the pain
OF My Father'S birtH
KillING me
My OWn two Hands
Dieing

[Ash giggling] Again, I have no idea...that one reads a bit more like a sad little gothic kid* who want to slit their wrists and wear nothing but black and eat seeds and smoke cigarettes. Constantly whining and taking up space.

*This form should also be avoided.

Example of C :

Our Love is the brightest
of all stars
in the heavens
shining for eternity
like never ending rings

Bleh.

Love is stupid and should be hated.

Example of D :

I was reading an article the other day on the low standards of the average American when it comes to entertainment. How watered-down and dumb television and film has become. Etc, etc. And came across the phrase Refrigerator Poetry. How anyone (yes, anyone) can "write" poetry with the help of those "delightful" little magnets.

I own a set of them myself. They were a gift, and I'm thankful for 'em. I smiled and thought 'em quite delightful myself. But for actual writing? Well, poetry, to me, is a bit more than magnets on a fridge...though for the sake of this (now slightly wayward) post, here's a fridge poem for you. "Written" by me between four-fifty and five-seventeen of this morning, sitting barefoot on the fake hardwood of my cold kitchen floor with a cup of coffee, my camera, and no idea whatsoever on how to go about creating something of coherence with nothing but magnets, the hum of the fridge, and my heart's inner voice still sleeping.



For the kids who can't read good:

Love Me
Save Me
Interrogate Me
Hate Me

Use Me
Fix Me

Obliterate Me

Okay, so I filled in the blanks a bit. And yes, the third magnet says Integrate, not Interrogate, but I didn't know that at the time [cough-cough, Ash can't read good either].

...

End Note: Ninety percent of this is my joking. I respect poetry, poets, and anything they say and represent (within reason).

I think the only poetry that should be avoided is dishonest poetry. As long as you're telling the truth, not Non-fiction necessarily, but the truth as your heart and head sees it, then poetry is great and should be loved. As long as writing it made the poet happy.

I'm not happy.

I'm ready for November and fictional prose.