poetry

If there's one thing I regret, now that I am in no position anymore to regret my complete and utter failure to move rhythmically on a dance floor, it's my inability to appreciate poetry. I just don't get it.

The New Yorker, my Bible of big city sophistication, gives me stories I devour and cartoons I laugh about heartily. It also prints poems. Every now and then I try to read one. I inevitably stop before the last line has met my eyes. There's nothing in them for me.

Imagine my surprise – and that's really too weak a word – when I discovered blog poetry today. While searching for images of drunken monkeys on google (I was preparing lab meeting for Monday and wanted to succinctly summarize my progress.), I came across Gwadzilla's blog. I found no drunken monkeys, but ragged phrases that appear half finished but have beauty in them and a translucent swing. Here are two examples of what I mean, thoughts about coming home after work and another about sorting photos. Really, they're about nothing at all, but I feel art in them, and I like it. I call them poetry.