I confess. I never finished Moby Dick. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to. Never read more of Faulkner than “Barn Burning.” Refused to stick with Finnegan’s Wake. I managed to slog through Madame Bovary, Jane Eyre, Beowulf, The Golden Notebook. Weeks of my life I can never get back. I confess. These are iceberg-tip lists. I could make lit professors weep with all I haven’t forced myself to swallow. I confess. I don’t find that I’ve ever had much time to be concerned with THE CANON, with what’s considered classic. I’m not throwing shade. I’m just saying. I read Ulysses. Twice. And War and Peace, August 1914, Crime and Punishment. Oh yes. Give me Russians. Give me Russians any day. Not because they’re in the literary canon, but because they speak to me. I confess. I am more interested in my pleasure, in stories that resonate, than in faking passion. I confess … but I’m not repentant.
I think I’ve gone off course with these prose poems, lost what little hold I had on how they’re supposed to work. Time to go back to my crib sheets and get reacquainted with this form.
Are you writing poems this month? Where can I see them? Let’s share this craziness!
As I did last year, I’ll be following along with the Poem-A-Day challenge at Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides Blog. Today’s prompt is to write a confession poem. You can post your daily poems on Brewer’s page. The top poem from each day will be included in an anthology later this year!