the year of bad poetry

Last night, after having spent the day with two of my favorite people—one a writer, the other a musician—I sat down at my computer with a glass of red wine and I wrote a terrible poem. It was so bad, I'm pretty sure I won't even bother trying to edit it into something readable. And you know, I was blissfully happy with it.

It was the second day of 2015, but certainly not too late to make a fanciful plan for the next 364 days.  A plan to write at least one bad poem every day.

I haven't written much poetry in a long while. I used to write poetry pretty frequently, but it's never been a discipline. It's just happened irrepressibly. So when the fountain turned off, the poetry ceased. When it comes to establishing creative patterns of behavior, as I mentioned before, I'm not very steady. Part of my inconsistency has to do with having a short attention span. But when it comes to poetry, it's mostly because I don't want to write it if it isn't life-changing in some way. Epic. Romantic. Painful. Grand. To commit to a year of writing poetry would be crippling. To commit to a year of writing bad poetry, just so that I'm writing anything at all...I suspect that'll be liberating.

We'll see.

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