Summary

The text is a reflective narrative about the author's experience at a poetry workshop, questioning the nature of what constitutes a "Poem" through personal anecdote and humor.

Abstract

The author recounts attending a poetry workshop at a local bookstore, reminiscing about the era when such places were hubs of literary activity. The workshop leader, who claims fame within the state, imparts her definition of a true "Poem" as something that defies straightforward understanding and requires study. The author humorously grapples with this concept, juxtaposing the leader's views with the accessibility of poetry, and ultimately leaves the realm of poetry to those more initiated, like the author's sister, who is published in journals the author finds intimidating. The piece concludes with a musing on the general fear of appearing ignorant about poetry and the beauty found in its inherent complexity.

Opinions

The author seems to approach the subject of poetry with a mix of reverence and skepticism, particularly regarding the workshop leader's assertion that a true poem must be cryptic.
There is a sense of nostalgia for the traditional bookstore environment as a place of literary worship and community.
The author playfully suggests that fame and recognition in the poetry world might be enhanced by less conventional means, such as Bukowski's whisky-induced infamy.
The piece conveys a subtle critique of the elitism that can be associated with poetry, with references to exclusive knowledge supposedly held by universities and Masonic temples.
The author expresses a personal sense of inadequacy or imposter syndrome when it comes to understanding or being part of the poetry scene, especially when compared to their sister's success.
The text humorously implies that the complexity and confusion of poetry are what make it beautiful and respected, even if it is not always accessible or understandable.

This is Not a Poem

I have it on good authority.

I went to a workshop at my local bookstore

Back when bookstores were a thing and you could go workshopping

Which I think is like worshipping

The ghost of Maya Angelou or Charles Bukowski (Wait, is Bukowski still alive? Well, I’m sure he won’t mind pretending.)

Plus also shoplifting the words of poets I haven’t heard of

Because that’s real poetry, obscure, scribbled by hand in those little leather notebooks

(I’m sure the word will come to me. Oh right, Moleskine, which I probably shouldn’t buy because I’m allergic to earthworms

Plus, I don’t get paid even a penny for my poems

And those things are worshipped but expensive.)

Anyway, the workshop leader passed out paper

Back when paper wasn’t contaminated

And mentioned casually she was famous in our state at least if not the nation

(She needs to drink more of Bukowski’s whisky to reach infamy

And maybe insanity)

But no, she’s already there somewhere under her perfect makeup and curly hair

Because, she told all of us gathered round the table, just humble bookstore aficionados

And maybe a covert Laureate who’d slipped in,

That a poem is only a Poem

When it makes no sense. When you have to study it.

Her eyes gleamed as she waxed,

And waned when she heard our efforts

I didn’t speak because I didn’t know which nonsense made the right sense

Mystical wisdom, hidden in Masonic temples and universities I didn’t attend

So I leave poetry to my sister, revered by journals I don’t understand

But am scared to reveal my ignorance

And maybe everyone is

Or they know Poetry,

That beautiful confusion

(Not Confucius, he is too straightforward, not to mention straight-laced

And in this modern world might eat a cheeseburger

And laugh at children

And their simple words

Which are not Poetry

But still glorious.)