I used to advise people against giving me houseplants and, as evidence, would show them my Poe garden of dead little things with bare, shriveled claws for branches and overly withered roots.
Mitch Hedberg, one of my very favorite comedians, had a bit in his standup routine that went like this: "My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”
I do love plants. I love their their beauty, their fragrance and the healthy ambiance they exude, but plants in my home have to be extra, extra hardy, or come with a full-time long-term gardener in tow.
And so it is with my approach to writing poetry. If an idea is steadfast and substantial enough, I will eventually work it into a piece. If not, if it is but a wisp of a thought I will, regrettably, forget about it.
The care and feeding of my poetry requires that I read poetry, and only the very best poems available to me. Shakespeare, Blake, Coleridge, Millay, Wordsworth, Browning, and Riley are but a few.
Admittedly, absorbing and feeding on the works of these, my mentors, is a luxury that I don’t afford myself often enough, but when I do indulge in truly great poetry my muse responds ravenously.
Now, well past in their initial tutoring, I am able to compose without merely mimicking them, yet, their mark is indelibly upon me. This was true of Rembrandt, Raphael, or any schooled apprentice.
My work lies in a lesser strata than that of my mentors, and it is unlikely that I will ever achieve to their level, but their poems continue to encourage me to to attain to the very best that I am capable of.
As to our houseplants, my husband is very good with living things. His tender care of them yields beautiful, bounteous results. So, I leave them to him, for the most part, and simply enjoy them.
Image: commons.wikimedia.org
Mitch Hedberg, one of my very favorite comedians, had a bit in his standup routine that went like this: "My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”
I do love plants. I love their their beauty, their fragrance and the healthy ambiance they exude, but plants in my home have to be extra, extra hardy, or come with a full-time long-term gardener in tow.
And so it is with my approach to writing poetry. If an idea is steadfast and substantial enough, I will eventually work it into a piece. If not, if it is but a wisp of a thought I will, regrettably, forget about it.
The care and feeding of my poetry requires that I read poetry, and only the very best poems available to me. Shakespeare, Blake, Coleridge, Millay, Wordsworth, Browning, and Riley are but a few.
Admittedly, absorbing and feeding on the works of these, my mentors, is a luxury that I don’t afford myself often enough, but when I do indulge in truly great poetry my muse responds ravenously.
Now, well past in their initial tutoring, I am able to compose without merely mimicking them, yet, their mark is indelibly upon me. This was true of Rembrandt, Raphael, or any schooled apprentice.
My work lies in a lesser strata than that of my mentors, and it is unlikely that I will ever achieve to their level, but their poems continue to encourage me to to attain to the very best that I am capable of.
As to our houseplants, my husband is very good with living things. His tender care of them yields beautiful, bounteous results. So, I leave them to him, for the most part, and simply enjoy them.
Image: commons.wikimedia.org
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