Hypoetocrite

by T. Leah Fehr, November 15, 2007

It has been brought to my attention, by my own internalized and self-reposed enlightenment and shame, that I am a hypoetocrite. And while MS Word scores this remark with a condescending and jagged red scribble, I feel suddenly empowered and invigorated, for to be the inventor, (the Creator, if you will) of a new and completely ridiculous word is every poets’ prerogative within the literary sanction of ‘poetic license’. And so I have thus christened myself, ‘Hypoetocrite’ henceforth, and MS Word is merely a soulless, cold and empty vessel in which I must hitch a ride every so often to transcend the banality of my world through writing.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes… I am a hypoetocrite.

This is, in truth, quite a troubling revelation for one who considers herself a poet. And it is not one that I disclose with ease. I live to write, even if I cannot write to live, and I love for others to read what I’ve written (they don’t), and I am wholly enraptured when those who have read my poetry (they haven’t), are touched by it and can take some kind of meaning for themselves from it (they can’t). It is irrelevant to me if I am understood by my readers (who?), for understanding has never been the purpose of my writing. My words mean something very specific to me, but that something becomes so completely convoluted and distorted while it is being written, that I am the only person who could ever hope to decipher the true significance. But writers’ intent in poetry is redundant. I don’t write so that others will understand me (they won’t) – no, I write to express myself, to calm the torrent within me, to pass the time with a bottle of wine, and to let the dust settle. And I write the way that I do in a futile attempt to open minds to the abstract, and obscurity of the world around and within us all. I intentionally skew my metaphors and form, not to confuse the reader, but to force them to look at my writing, and their own thoughts, experiences and feelings, without preconceived expectation. Needless to say, it doesn’t really work for most people.

I love to write, and I long to be read and respected in my art, as do all poets. For those (very, very) few who have visited my website, you know that I enjoy incorporating literary and artistic historical tidbits into my posts. Most every day I scour the internet searching for interesting (to me) poetry or art-related facts significant to the day. You may also have noted that there have been remarkably few posts about other poets or their poetry. This is not due to a lack of poetic trivia available online, despite what you may think. No… the reason for my unwillingness to post the work of those poets who were either born or died on most any given day, is because their writing is, in my very amateur poets’ opinion, fucking twaddle. Which, in itself, would not be a terribly disparaging remark, were the poets in question not Laureate’s and recipients of such prestigious awards as the Pulitzer. Reading the poetry of these Masters causes me physical discomfort, or bores me into a coma, at best. At worst, I have considered giving up writing entirely, for I simply cannot bring myself to write so poorly as is the obvious requisite to be awarded the Pulitzer or the Bollingen.

I am not decreeing that I am loathe to read and appreciate any and all poetry that is not my own. This is a minor exaggeration. But I do often find reading others work a tribulation, be they amateurs like myself, or world-renowned poets (according to Wikipedia). I despise literal and simplistic poetry, or poetry that bears no soul. I could no longer stomach the drivel that was masquerading as poetry on poets.com – suffer the reviewers. But in that same breathe, I adore Edgar Allan Poe, Hugh Mearns, Leonard Cohen, Gregory Bell and Dean Young. I have an appreciation for Bukowski, Shakespeare and Dante. And I eagerly anticipate my studies of Goethe. So, you see, I don’t despise all other poetry but my own.

Just most of it.

And should this disclosure be the brilliant ally of my own gravedigger* in the world of poetry, then so be it. I cannot live a lie.

My name is T. Leah Fehr-Thompson, and I am a hypoetocrite.