On the (Hy)Breed of Art & Poetry

Today we discussed text as a hybrid, citing J. Tamayo's book "Read Missed Aches..." as a relatively perfect example. It reminds me of how we first approached poetry in this class: "a poem should be a party." Art should, "bother."

Most parties have this sense of discontent. We have all these roles we can play: the crying drunk girl, the obnoxious drunk girl who sings along (incorrectly) to each horrible Rihanna tune that squeals through the stereo, the totally sober boy who pretends to be drunk so he can hook up with his best friend David and pretend like the whole thing never happened, the totally drunk boy who the totally sober boy accidentally hooks up with anyway. Then there are the stoners with their little cloud of disappointment and empty happiness, the people who stand awkwardly at opposite corners and try to use a spoon to eat jello shots. That one douchebag who feels the need to make some awkward toast every twenty minutes; his final, a dialogue between he and the toilet. These are parties. These are the parties I've been to. I've played, though I hate to admit it, most of these roles. Except the last. I hate toasts and I've never puked after drinking. It's uncomfortable right? These parties? They're created for interaction, because they can be "fun" or "cool" or just an epicenter of people to get fucked up and forget their "problems." Or for people to get fucked up so they can remember their problems and make more of them. This, I think, is a poem.

But I also think a poem is a thunderstorm. There's a tension, a growing sense of unease. It's much like good sex. You're hyperaware. You've got this continual string of signs that unsettle you: the hollowness of pre-storm air, the silence, the lack of birdsong-- all you hear is this industrial whine that nature somehow manages to override. Then the lightning strike, then the thunderclap and rain the size and consistency of glass shards pelting you. You should be fucking terrified. But there's something so poetic about a thunderstorm. I think it lies heavily in the premonition we get before a storm strikes. This sort of "oh-shit" moment where we don't know how to behave. It triggers something absolutely animal, which a poem should do as well. I think parties try to simulate this "oh-shit" knee-jerk moment.

lt;dr: Poems are parties, or thunderstorms, or orgasms. or all of the above. Take your pick.