How bad poetry enriched my life
Our German teacher did not talk a lot about literature. Don’t get me wrong: Ms. Gruber was a good teacher - highly motivated, deeply committed, always trying her best to add variety to her teaching methods, placing her focus on useful and important topics such as communication, conflict management and intercultural competence. She was just not that much into literature. I however clearly was. Much as I appreciated Ms. Gruber for her various merits I therefore could not help deeming it quite a pity that she did not dedicate more time to poetry and prose. Imagine my delight when she finally brought a poem to class in order to discuss it. And now imagine my disappointment when it turned out that the poem she had chosen was just … lame. It was a poem about “the power of emotions” - the kind of poem which is explicitly written for its use in a Hallmark gift book. Risk-free. “Inspirational”. Irrelevant. Its message was trite. (So, emotions can be awesome? Who would have guessed?). The images it employed to convey it were over-used. (Linking a powerful emotion to a volcanic eruption and a super-nova ... very innovative). Its form did nothing to contribute to its intended impact and meaning. Ultimately, it was too much concerned with claiming powerful emotions to actually transmit them. My German teacher had got it from our religion teacher who planned to use it in his lessons too and I think that says everything about it (to someone who knows our religion teacher at least). The problem was: Ms. Gruber had obviously chosen the poem because she liked it. Yet I felt this unquenchable urge to explain to everybody why it was utterly, utterly mediocre. So I did it. It took me the entire lesson, but I did it. I did it at the risk of seriously pissing off my German teacher whose assessment of my language skills was almost ridiculously important to me. What is more: I did it at the risk of boring the hell out of my poor classmates who had every right on earth not to be interested in my opinion on that stupid poem. I had to. When I was done, my German teacher said: “Well, at least I got you to display some passion”. At first, I was a bit baffled about this comment, wondering why this should make this poem less of a waste of time, but then it hit me that she was right. This pedestrian, boring poem suddenly gained personal value for me, because it had drawn my attention to something important: the good, destructive fun of shredding it to pieces. For this was what it was all about: not about a smug sense of superiority illicitly achieved by putting something down (Firstly, I still cringe at the thought of the damage this lesson has probably done to my reputation in class. Secondly, I know damn well that I could not write a poem myself to save my life) - and no, not about bitter frustration about my own poetic impotence either. I won’t deny that all these aspects might have played a certain part in contributing to my fervour, because I actually believe in keeping in touch with my darker side, but still - my main motivation was fun. The thing is: After all these years in which I had been mainly concerned with developing my analytical side, I had somehow ceased to view myself as a passionate person. But now I saw that this did not have to be a contradiction: Just because I was analytical, this did not mean that I could not get passionate – passionate about analyzing things, for instance. Since then my credo has been: Everything that can be killed by analysis deserves to be killed by analysis. There are things that are not within the grasp of an analytical approach, but if they are strong enough, good enough, they always survive. So I love analyzing things. I do not think that this is strange. Many people feel the urge to take things apart at a certain stage of their development, to see how they work. People keep telling me amusing stories of how they ruined their favourite toy in this way. I never took toys apart. Being gifted with a clear assessment of my technical skills (or rather the lack thereof) at a very early age I just knew that I had no hope of ever putting them back together. Instead I take apart poems. Stories. People. Feelings. Languages. I sometimes do fail to put them back together too, but this is just a risk you have to take. Thrilling things never come risk-free. You know how it is supposed to destroy the magic if the magician reveals his tricks? Well, I am the kind of person who enjoys the magic even more once I know how it works.
Neue Texte zum Label 'Passions':
- Simply Springtime 01.03.2007
- Wenn Männer für das Valentinsdinner..... 14.02.2007
- Equator of my Heart's Beat 04.06.2006
- Pur(e)Pur Passion Rhododendron 02.06.2006
- my 5th Season 08.05.2006
Textoptionen
Instead of demolishing your teacher's poem, why don't you bring a poem to class and ask the teacher if you can study it in class? It is a lot easier to throw rocks than to catch them.
"Throwing rocks" and "catching rocks" are skills that are hardly comparable. They both have their use. It seems silly to establish a hierarchy.
(And I don't know how valueable that analogy is anyway - I don't know about rocks, but when it comes to balls, I've always found both catching them and hitting targets with them equally difficult. I really sucked at sports.)
(And I don't know how valueable that analogy is anyway - I don't know about rocks, but when it comes to balls, I've always found both catching them and hitting targets with them equally difficult. I really sucked at sports.)
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14.06.2009 - 22:12 Uhr
leolil