O Evil You

Puzzles: Chapter 1: Simplicity’s Hideous Inelegance

Speak clearly and plainly. To all new writers who never heard this sage advice — take heed. Me and poetry waged a long battle with conciseness ending in the defeat you will read in these pages. In younger days, classics filled dreams with the perfect poetic sculpture. The perfection of balancing semantics with mechanics formed the goal. Silent verses haunt the notebooks littering my shelves, evidence of this goal’s misguidedness. Language might be the medium of literary aesthetics, but it is always incomplete. Always needing a reader, poetry is a horse with no rider. True literary beauty requires readers to complete its purpose, and readers hate verbosity. 

Speak clearly and plainly. To writers pursuing conciseness, you’ll reap the benefit of readership. Me and other writers learned this lesson harshly. Across from many a critic, I sat enduring the criticism, “You’re too wordy.” Time’s passage relieved not my obstinance. “Motion in words” and “show don’t tell” formed the most beneficial and unheeded advice. Past experiences taught me audiences want to see, not read. To those wanting to read, not see, there’s always Whitman. New writers appear immune to verbosity since you exalt short, witty lines, but this illusion fades in practices that inflate your poetry. 

I see you apologizing and qualifying every stanza, detracting from conciseness. Want, need, emotional triggers, mindfulness, being humble: this is all new age nonsense. To listen to you preface every idea with a humbling qualifier or warning is a descent into absurdity. Hear your literary voice, try as I might, I find myself listening to a lonely person reassuring his cats. You can’t imagine my frustration listening to you prattle ideas in a blathering whirlwind of sensitivity. Beyond your poetic whines, your grandest thought describes how to make yourself happy using social media. Laughter would steal my frustration, except you’re serious and take offense when told you’re long-winded, unoriginal, and overly sensitive. And of all the ridiculous things you do, please stop writing with emoticons because this is literature not texting. Antics of the young, I’m told, but I believe literature’s demise might be more appropriate. 

I am also told authenticity defines contemporary literature. Want and need for the truth they claim. To this end, I say literature is all about telling a good lie. Hear me in my writing but know that’s not me. The voice you’re hearing is a riddle recited from within an enigma, especially where emotion is concerned. You think I’m lying? Beneath every masterpiece exists a carefully constructed scaffold of sublime meaning. The words are nothing more than flowers blossoming from the roots of that essence. Semantics my friend — all semantics. 

Talk plainly and clearly. To you, I say these words with the most seriousness. Me and my poetic failure prove this need. Across many years, I struggled for uniqueness. All a waste. Of all the ways to express myself, I chose the most enigmatic which only served to confuse. Love’s verses need not convolute with artistic dementia, relentless honesty, and soul-filled warnings. Dimensions of meaning clarify readily in simple statements. 

Express yourself simply, and don’t commit my mistake of lacking brevity. To write honestly, you need only speak from the heart. Me and you; that’s all. The clearest and simplest a statement can be. Pure in meaning to all listening. Tongue tying serves no poetic purpose. Of all verses ever written, school-age children scribble the most meaning on notes in crushes. Affections pure and simple, endure the longest.¹

1. From Enigma “O Evil You” If you read the first word of each line, a poem forms with one line per paragraph.  

Poem 

Speak to me in the silent language always true 
Speak to me across time’s motion: past to new 
I want to hear you beyond laughter and antics 
I want to hear the you beneath the semantics 
Talk to me across all of love’s dimensions 
Express to me the pure tongue of affections.