A few days ago I had a Twitter exchange with @my_oh_mia in which she teased about chics loving poetry. Now before I dispute that, which is what the title of my blog suggests I'm going to do, I did want to thank her for her poetic contribution ( This endless winter\ Cruelly long, yet I smile\ Better Wednesdays soon) which concisely captured my mood as of late. Yes, that is exactly how I've been feeling as my lover's absence weighed on me and as I think about her return. But honestly, when I think back to all the women I've been close to I can't think of anyone who was really that into poetry.
I have written technical papers considered classics, eulogies that left rooms of people weeping, and love letters that turned a woman uninterested in marriage into my (first) wife. But I am definitely not a poet. I find the precision of its form(s) tedious. While I love exercising my brain, until smoke comes out my ears if necessary, poetry just doesn't seem worth the effort. I don't even enjoy reading it. I have a truly vivid imagination (to the point I have on occasion worried about slipping into an imaginary world so deeply I'd end up in a mental institution), yet poetry doesn't generally paint pictures for me. Nothing. I would give anything to be able to read Dante's Inferno. Well, anything except my soul. I can't, my mind draws a blank every time I try. So you can imagine my horror at the notion that poetry works wonders on women. Fortunately, it just doesn't seem to be true.
Back in high school I actually did write some poetry, specifically aimed at helping me with seducing a particular girl. She definitely appreciated the effort, but no more than she appreciated other efforts to garner her affection. No doubt my poetry was not particularly good. But then I had precious little evidence that she cared one wit about poetry to begin with. And as I moved on with life that is pretty much what I've found. Very few women cared that deeply about poetry. But all women care that a man demonstrates real effort in courting or trying to seduce them. I suppose that writing a poem is so supremely painful for most men that we get great credit for the attempt. As for me, I'd rather walk on hot coals to demonstrate my love. Because poetry never got me laid.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Is it fair that I admit, the written word seduces me, the mind-fuck is my prelude d' foreplay, but a hot debate tête-à-tête is what makes my legs fly open?
Seduce me, please, send a copy of the "technical classics" to ..............
~~~~~~~~~~
Your article hints to explain why you and I are a match of catastrophic laden proportions
I'll admit, my comment "chicks dig poetry" was mostly in jest. For me, it's more the effort put forth...than the actual execution of proper (purple?) prose. As for my little haiku? Just observing the oh-so-obvious chemistry and affection between the two of you. It's palpable, sexy and endearing. We all should be so lucky. Best to both of you---you brainy, seductive, couple! :-)
Post a Comment