I hate poetry. Okay, hate is a strong word. I strongly dislike poetry. I’m trying to read John Donne for class tomorrow, and it doesn’t make sense, and I’m so frustrated. I actually just went on the school website to see if I could drop the class. But I know I shouldn’t give up that easily. Still. Some people look at difficult poetry as a challenge, and I’ve tried to see it like that, but it’s not working. Even when I finally do understand it (either by myself or because the teacher or someone explained it), I don’t usually like it any better. It’s not some feeling of accomplishment. I just feel like I’ve been gypped of hours of my time spent trying to understand something that he could’ve said in a much more straightfoward, succinct manner. I know I sound terribly unliterary by thinking that poetry is a waste of time (and I don’t think all of it is…poetry can be very beautiful and also not give me a headache..there are even some of the Donne ones I like all right), but there it is.
At least when I had to read Gerard Manly Hopkins last week for 19th and 20th Century Lit, I knew that soon, we’d be moving on to novels by Wilde, Woolf, Forster, etc. In the Donne class? Nope. Four more weeks of Donne, then the rest of the semester on other metaphysical poets who promise to be just as obscure. Kill.Me.Now.
I thought writing this down would make me feel better. Strangely, it didn’t. Maybe I’ll go upstairs and throw pillows around for a while to vent my frustration.