by Ransom Noble

Created on: January 13, 2009

Poets always get a bad rap. They fit into a small segment of people who see the world differently. Little things bring their snippets alive, partly because they're sensitive to life's little intricacies.

Sensitive is the word we use when we're being nice. Emotional is somewhat diplomatic. Our society values certain ways of thinking, among which is level-headedness. Often, outside of poets' earshot, we call them sappy.

Is it any wonder the word we use to describe sensitive people is also the same word for the sticky secretion from trees? An undesirable connotation for the poets can translate to a derision of the art itself, a comparison unfair to both poetry and its artisans. No one else twists a phrase nearly so well, with such love for the language in its most concise form.

So why is it we look for the small percentage who fit our view of the poets filled with angst? Is it because the rest of us write poetry behind closed doors, afraid to share it with others? It isn't something that comes up in conversation often. Most writers admit it, if only to call it a phase through the teenage years.

Half the uneducated masses don't claim to understand anything about poetry, except for the limerick fashions of girls from Nantucket. I must admit that's the least sappy variety, though it borders on crude when it doesn't completely cross the line into vulgar territory. Doesn't mean it can't be good poetry or have meaning; subject matter does not limit poetic form.

Poetry connects us to our own sappy sides. Sometimes it's a bit sticky and leaves a residue behind. Phrases left in our heads tumble about and leave impressions on our spirits. Some part of us appreciates the poetry within, but we ignore it in favor of more mainstream pursuits.

Tree references abound as my inner poet struggles free. Can't always stuff it in the back behind the random props of the geekdom I'm proud to claim. There should be a group out there for the wannabe poets where we twist the language together and pretend to be in touch with our emotional sides for a short time. I can see the meetings in my head: Poets Anonymous for the tree-resin lover in you.

Society embraces the trees themselves. Oaks have strength. Maples provide syrup. People travel many miles to see the leaves change for the seasons in picturesque areas. Yet as a group we eschew the convolutions of words that combine to give us the most beautiful, stunning combinations, especially when it leaves its stickiness behind. Probably because that stuff is so hard to wash off. Anyone interested in anti-poetry soap for that squeaky-clean feeling?

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