It's easy, when people ask what I do, to say, 'I'm a writer.' It has to be tough to say, 'I'm a poet.' One implies that there is a small possibility that I might actually be paying for food and shelter with my craft and therefore I can claim the title as a credible tab to my name and identity. The latter confuses the hell out of people.

Of course, all poets are writers with a preferred genre, but it is like the difference between skiers and snowmobilers; poets tend to think they are purists and some, not all, scorn the inkslinger who has a thousand words to squander in his seduction of the reader.

Conversely, if someone outside of Fanstory tells me they write poetry, my practised grin locks in, anchored by molars firmly clenched, in order not to allow any guttural noise to escape that might reveal my attitude towards most poetry.

It's not that I don't appreciate the genre; it's just that there are so many damn bad poets out there. It seems anyone with pen and paper and some random thoughts can post their poetry. It need not make sense to anyone except the poet. There are no punctuation requirements, no character, scene or plot purposes to their words.

A writer can't retort with, 'my work is subjective to interpretation.' Nor can he or she suggest, 'lack of punctuation is deliberate.' One can identify bad prose just as quickly as with poetry, but when it's good, it's such a great ride.

In order to immerse myself into this mystical writing form called poetry, I decided to read poetry using my emotional response as the only benchmark of quality. I recognized that my mood might have a lot to do with my judgement. I further accepted that if I was falling in love, the bluebirds and rose petals scattered so extravagantly through so many of the poems I read might have a deeper impact on a love-struck girl than a crotchety old broad. But occasionally, I read a poem that reminds me of how I felt when I was falling in love. Six stars, no question about it. The poem passed my litmus test.

On site, we have a poet who can make me laugh every time I read her post, a historian who has turned little-known facts into short, but entertaining documentaries, and countless emotional healers who both soothe and comfort readers with their words. Kudos to all.

I can appreciate, but not enjoy, the 'technique' writers who build acrostics or follow prescribed rhyme schemes to fulfill contest requirements. Often the technique is spot-on perfect, yet the poet has nothing to say.

Haibun fascinates me. In this format, both prose writers and poets can weave the best elements of their craft, employing lyrical styles and alliteration to fulfill both writing styles. I find more writers willing to play in this arena than poets. I have a theory--of sorts.

If I imagine being at a gathering and the food represents the writing genre, poetry would be akin to a cocktail party serving appetizers. The guests are all tickled with bite-sized tid-bits. Some are scrumptious and yet the waiter passes by, serving other guests before allowing me to satisfy my hunger with a second or third taste. Other trays pass me by, the offering looks like anchovy paste smeared on a saltine cracker. It's easy for me to stick my nose up at the visual presentation and the stench emanating from the silver tray. But I'm still hungry and I'm tired of standing around in a room with no chairs. The host feels sitting down would extend my expected visit. Exasperated by the experience, I follow the aroma that invites me into the adjoining room.

The prose writers, who all claim the right to satisfy my aching needs, imagine themselves to be master chefs. The banquet table is heavily laded, weighty from all the words used in each recipe. Some authors stand behind the table and I glance at the fashion display. One man stands defiantly, with his pristine white jacket smeared with blood. Ah, the horror writer; he proudly displays his butchering abilities.

Further down the line, there is a trio of high fashion fairy-like creatures, dressed in gossamer with yards of silk trailing behind them like bridal gowns. The romance writers eye the dark knights in the corner, some wearing their armour, while others try to hide behind their black turtle necks and unruly beards.

By far the most populated area of the room is the bar. There are as many women as men in this group. They seem self-contained, committed drinkers who are engrossed in each others stories, but not at all shy about stepping forward to entertain with their own anecdotes. I feel a gravitational pull toward this group, but I shake my head. I'm here to eat, not drink.

I grab a plate and begin my walk down the buffet tables, easily forgoing the thin porridge and the thirty-layer cake so crammed full of ingredients that it will tumble the moment someone actually tries to eat the concoction.

Some entrees are simple, using well thought out ingredients that slide across my tongue evoking a sigh of appreciation. Others are far more complicated, and it is obvious the author has ground his own spices in an effort to win the approval of the guests.

I am allowed to linger, there are ample chairs available, but I must leave,and go back to the real world where sometimes pizza delivery is the only way anyone gets fed in my reality.


Before I end my musings, my theory is that maybe prose writers are gluttons, and just possibly, poets are terrified of gaining weight, afraid to indulge in a full-course meal. But what do I know? I'm a writer.