From Bad To Verse

   Now then I have this what-the-hell for poetry. It just doesn't become of me. And I see no reason why they link poetry to admiration of Nature, Life, Beauty, et cetera. I mean, the whole process of getting awed stops the moment one poemizes the panaroma. You cease the true drinking-in and feeling when you stitch them up in language and grope for words. I bet my fortune (which chiefly consists of some trinkets by way of gifts, fictional scrawls, e-mail accounts and Kindergarten origami, all other material possessions having been purchased by parental monies) that there is a positive gulf between any poet's output and the actual sensations that passed through his bones. I do not say that such poetry is pointless, but merely that one mustn't construe it as the poet's exact mind.   
   I, for one, can never bring myself to be poetically inclined. That is to say, from the penholder's side of the deal. I am not altogether a verse to poetry... erm, averse to poetry. Like all, I do relish reading good poems, and tunnel through Palgrave's Golden Treasury at will. But composing... No, it is impossible for me to lace into verses what they would call the tender emotions and silent sighs of Nature and grace of women (ugh!). Not my cuppa tea. I simply don't have enough estrogen for the stuff. Such poetry is not my line (oh, pun unintended). The most I could do in this sphere is imagine myself as a merman and sing 'I was standing on the jeans-blue sea, and the beauteous sand-waves clashed on the edge.' No more.
   I wrote a poem decribing a rain as seen from the window, four and a half years ago (on 01.11.2002, to be unnecessarily precise), and had the misfortune of reading it. I have a vague remembrance of dashing for the sink and vomiting, and entertaining self-immolative ideas the following week. I vowed never to attempt poetry again, but had to break the oath when the alma mater forcefully sent me as its agent in poetic missions for inter-school cultural contests. I swear I never bred even a germ of the thought of willingly putting out poetry of any variety those days.
I cannnot resist (b)logging this dialogue exchange. Please do let me know if you crack in what way the supplied reply answers the quesion I asked. It's been teasing the old brain for long. Thanks.  
Dr Swarnalatha, HS221 instructor: Any questions?
Nirmal : Ma'm, I don't understand why Wordsworth defined poetry as (fingers crooking to gesture quote unquote) spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquillity. Even his own poetry is not spotaneous... Because the poets need to put their verses in a strict meter and so maintain line lengths. They need to choose their words accordingly. And poems with rhyme schemes makes it only harder. I don't think those poems are really spontaneous. So is Wordsworth's definition really good? 
Ma'm: Recently there was this.. this.. I don't know if I could call him an artist... There was this man in England who put up a raw placenta for display and called it Art. So Art is all just personal perspective...
   I found the poem below from somewhere. I frankly haven't the haziest clue as to what structure it's been written in. It's not proper iambic pentameter, in which case each and every line must be comprised of ten syllables, while here the last two lines of each stanza is made up of only eight, although the metric has been observed in the rest. And one too many alliterations have been thrown in and liberties taken. I think I came across it today in a notepad file on my Windows desktop. Interestingly, the file wasn't there yesterday ;) 
  Ode To The Computere
    From the instant of booting till I shut
  Thee down, ally, thou sucketh up mine hours
  As dost a briskish bee off a bloomer, but
  Yet  I canst help adh'ring mine double arse
  To the plastic throne and immerse
  Mine head in thy witch-tricks diverse.
  Thou possesseth a mind-magnet, methinks,
  For thou art flaired at fracturing resolves
  Of abstinence and control: mine wit drinks
  To thy health, mine little fickle heart dissolves
  In thy magic brew of cursors,
  Icons, windows, files and folders.
  Why, thy windows art labyrinths of dark,
  For I am oft-trap't in thy folder maze:
  Window sans 'Up' button be a question mark
  And a cul-de-sac  I do fear to face.
  But to be netted as poor fish
  In them's what I wish against wish.

  Graspeth I wherefore thine nineteen-inch screen
  Was by brainy bast'rds baptised 'Monitor':
  For it doth exude a high might unseen,
  Addicting souls stronger than might liquor.
  May it too be called idiot box,
  And be virussed with Trojan pox!

  Thy blinking cursor's one vile hypnotizer;
  Thy icons hieroglyphics of today.
  Brownian Motion describ'th thy pointer:
  Never wilt he in single pixel stay!
  I wish pups pee on thy Mouse plus
  Thy Sea Pee You and You Pee Us!

  Thy Keyboard! Keyless problems art her keys,
  Each time mine fingers touch her I draw doom.
  Thy encroachment of mine suite ruined mine peace,
  Advent killed the notion of Single Room.
  Loathe thee for these, O Computere!
  Yet love thee for these, Computere!