On Poetry, Panic, and Small-Dick Energy

I’m a Tiger and I Won’t Change My Stripes

I was in my poetry class today, where we share work and give feedback. I arrived a bit late and slipped in medias res. A woman was reading a gorgeous poem about peonies. After that came more carefully crafted poésie and I felt myself shrinking inward.

These people, I thought, know how to write poems—villanelles, sestinas, iambic pentameter—with real panache.

Me? I talk about small, vitriolic grievances, the way the blinds move in my bedroom, or how a date went sideways. In free verse. I wouldn’t even call it prose—so I learned today.

So, in an effort to reach the elevated echelons of the group, I decided to share a poem in a style I don’t usually do. A bit slower, a bit more literary, or so I thought.

It got a communal eh.

I had been too afraid to read my piece about Joe Rogan and small dicks. So when my turn came around again, I thought "fuck it" and shared that one instead.

People were delighted. This one bloke I adore—a Brit—was shouting, "More, more. Give us more. More of this!"

And I crawled a little back out of myself. Sat up taller. Felt, well—seen. Really seen. The real me who cannot rhyme and sometimes cannot even reason.

Later, sitting in traffic on the way to the pharmacy, I thought: it’s OK.

It’s OK that I’m not poetic.

It’s OK that I cannot—or will not—write about snowdrops and sunsets.

It’s OK that I accidentally called Fellini’s masterpiece 9 ½.

My life is not sepia. It’s not Garamond, even though that’s my favorite font at the moment. It’s not about enjambment and caesuras. It’s about dirty martinis and aging with disgrace—and oh, also adynation. The more ridiculous, the better. Look it up. It’s worth it.

So—ergo—I’m OK.

I’m a tiger and I do not have to change my stripes to fit. I don’t have to match this idea of what it means to be a writerly writer. It’s OK to trigger people. Shock and awe. Be a bit dirty.

I don’t have to clean up my act.

I felt happy.

Funny thing is, toward the end of class, our group leader said he was going to show a funny video of a girl in a bikini. The two other women in class excused themselves. I stayed to watch. She had big boobs and a tiny string bikini and she was talking about poetry.

And again, I thought: maybe I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.