No sir, I don’t like it.
The last time I “liked” poetry was when I was about ten years old (girls have aspirations, you know…). And then there’s the ruin of many an avid reader: dissection of poetry and prose in redundant high school English classes.
I realize song lyrics, which I can enjoy immensely, are poetic; I say that’s different: they acceptably mesh with the music in my brain.
(I’m sure that’s a correct use of the word language wise…)
My grand dislike of poetry was validate by a line in Tiny Furniture:
Poetry is a very stupid thing to be good at. Poems are basically like dreams — something that everybody likes to tell other people but nobody actually cares about when it’s not their own. Which is why poetry is a failure of the intellectual community.
Thank you, Lena Dunham, for such a perfect description of how I feel.
Review of the Film
I rather enjoyed the film: it was kind of an art school-updated-Slacker-type-nothing-happens aesthetic (I also knew people who wanted to make art films, so it’s a somewhat nostalgic experience for me).
Then there’s the review in the New York Observer that ripped it to pieces: “Amateur Hour (and a Half)”, which I don’t necessarily disagree with, either.
And that’s all for today’s non sequitur.