Why I Am Not A Painter

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a pile of mostly raw and probably bad poetry

            on the internet
            in the hopes of creating something better

            This blog is not CLEAN and is not meant to be.
            Useful critique appreciated, i.e. specific comments and suggestions.

            You need not identify yourself unless you want to;
            comments will be judged on value, not the source. (Although knowing the source can be useful.)
            Unsupported heckling OR praise are not appreciated.

            Also, I vaguely apologize if you're my friend and you see yourself or others we know here.
            I am aware that that can be unsettling
            but that's the risk you run being friends with a writer. Also,
            maybe you're just being paranoid. Also,
            there is never a clear picture of reality

Camping in Woods

(ars poetica for class)

Camping in Woods

We are on a camping
Trip. We have never been out
Camping before, so we don’t forget
To forget everything we could
Need. We’re badasses with sunglasses.

How do you make soup? We don’t
Know. We try anyway. How do you
Catch fish? We learn how to
Get wet. We are on a camping trip
Because we want independence–

Our very own parents’
Basement in the sky. We sleep in
Shifts, swat mosquitoes, eat
A new vegetable. Fair enough. Wish we knew
How to process marshmallows.

These woods are really
Fucking cold. We’ve seen men
Make fire–Can we make fire?
The sticks are wet. The timber
Is wet. We cheat a little.

We burn mosquitoes because their
Buzzing annoys us. This is boring. We’re
Camping and we’re bored
Because it’s so quiet and all
We have is talk. But we don’t.

posted by Emilie # 9:28 PM

Comments:

I like the ending. The imagery is a bit blatant ... which is fine, I guess. The progression from stanza to stanza is pretty fluid. So if the goal was a sort of storytelling then you did that well.

# posted by

gloove : 10:09 PM

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