ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALREADY by Kevin Andrew Heslop
The purpose of the following personal essay is to make it clear to Stan that I refuse to write a personal essay under any circumstances whatever.
A personal essay seems so much margarine to me. With poetry, or with a list, even, you got the bullets: bang bang bang. I got the idea across. I got the information across. Good. Have a nice day. I mean, there’s usually so much fluff and pomp that you get bored and if you haven’t done by now I’m sure you won’t see my point.
go on and on about something you may not, and likely will not, want to read, and
when they're done, it will be done. Poetry, on the other hand, which is my go-to, kind of takes you on a roller coaster that leaves you with the momentum of the ride, compels you even to take that momentum and continue the ride without the poem.
The other thing I dislike about personal essays is that they often digress. In someone’s third paragraph, for example, they might be talking about one thing, but by the time the paragraph is over, you’ve been taken somewhere else entirely. And they may even use diction or metaphor that doesn’t manifest succinctly, seems more an aesthetic flourish than a communicative apparatus.
And the other thing is that they might use unnecessarily sophisticated diction.
But mostly I dislike when the writer repeats him or herself or includes two or three seperate points in a paragraph.
Or the writer might be writing about a topic say like, boat making, and they criticize boat makers rather than the actual technical process- that kills me.
Anyways so there are a couple reasons why I refuse to write a personal essay.
(Stan: The following is Kevin’s reward.)
TADPOLES IN A STREAM
with blood, stone, charcoal, dye, ink
the stone wall, the papyrus, the standard 8 and ½ by 11 sheet
were written upon.
the lighted screen
is now the canvas for thought.
has been handed along
like a bucket of water
from giving arms
to receiving ones,
straining with the weight.
I sit here knowing
that my help is not needed
nor, it seems,
and yet my impatient fingers writhe
in the evening air
like tadpoles in a stream,
the current playing upon
See more of Kevin at his blog: http://thechainsmokingpoet.wordpress.com/