Journal Entry on Poetry 02/01/210

I told myself I'd learn to write more formal poetry in 2018 because free verse feels insuccificient and prose is a bore.

So, what did I write today? An acrostic with the caps lock on. And, what did I write today? A crude poem about cowshit and the names of cows but, most importantly, spike mosses.

Today, I think I caught some feelings for Gertrude Stein. She reminded me of Blavatsky, calling herself a genius, saying she speaks 11 languages — hieroglyphics being one of them. This is the kind of woman I like — manic but too good to admit it. Is it a creature poem even if you write about humans? Aren't all creature poems about humans?

These childish sorts of questions. I like the idea of myself being an autodidactic poet. I'm still quite white and, to my chagrin, male. I wonder if white males haven't contributed enough to poetry already, and then I read Colin Cheney. I know there's a place if there's still one for manic depressive men with lapidary lyrics.

So, why learn form? Because I lack argument in my poetry. I lack the poet's mature voice. Not that I exactly want to be mature in the sense of going to workshops and wrangling poems with pins across the page. But, rather, that I feel lacking in my own voice.

I don't desire your pity, dear reader. I don't desire you to think I am not well. I might not be, but I trust in what I am doing. It feels wright.