After finding my childhood diary, I’ve been thinking about the huge numbers of bad poems one must be willing to write to arrive at a few good ones. Even the best poets seem to have to publish a lot of mediocre work and, I’m sure, throw away a lot more to achieve a few dozen gems. While I was thinking about this, I stumbled on this poem by William Matthews that at least partially addresses this very point.
Mingus at the Showplace
I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen,
and so I swung into action and wrote a poem, Continue reading “In praise of bad poems”