A Rather Poetic Analogy

The art of versification, or, prosody. It's becoming a hobby of mine. So much so that I've already read one book on poetry, am reading another, and even ordered "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman. I am slightly embarrassed by my enthusiasm, but not ashamed of it. I find myself writing poetry often and find when I write it that I am more confident of my ability to write poetry than my ability to right fiction, or post blogs (mind you, my poetry is horrible).

For me, prosody is like shooting around in basketball. Basketball is my favorite sport to play, even though I'm not great at it. I love running the court, playing defense, making that extra pass and nailing a jumpshot (there's not much better in life than hitting a jumper with a hand in your face. It's the lost art. Much like poetry). Writing fiction for me is like playing soccer, or football. Sure it's fun and I'm actually decent at it, I can hold my own (despite what OSU says), but it's not where my heart is. I step on to a basketball court and I'm at home.

Writing poetry is much like that then. Sure, it's something I'm not good at. Not at all. But it's where I feel at home. Much like a shootaround where I'm not playing an actual game, writing a poem for me, right now, is like that. I'm just working it out. Maybe I won't ever get good at it to run full-court. But I know that I could forever be happy with a basketball (read: pen), hoop (read: notebook) and visions of Larry Bird in my head (read: Eliot and Keats).

To prove my point, here's a poetry writing sample (which would've been rejected by OSU):

Ah, you are my unborn baby boy!
And now is your mother with child filled
Before me and at my side she's stilled

But there's a glow in your mother's opened eyes.
Feeling you churn in your yet unseen skin
Under these, these strong hands of mine.

I love thee and only know thee now but by
A mother's eyes, is your existence known,
Such is your life my son, on the outside.

See...my attempt at iambic pentameter. Utterly horrible, I know. It doesn't even rhyme.