Poetry.

Studying English at university is a dangerous proposition.

Over-exposure to literature at a young, impressionable age can lead to one's feet being lifted from the ground, and fill a scholar's head with various notions of his or her own literary prowess. I speak from personal experience. Half way through my first year, and fresh from reading sonnets for two hours, (don't worry, it wasn't on taxpayers' money) I decided that I, too, could write great verse.

And why not? I got an A in English at GCSE after all. I considered myself intelligent. What is there to writing poetry anyway? I convinced myself that I was a natural poet, a gifted wordsmith, who need only threaten parchment with pen for my creative juices to spill forth, embellishing the page with literary flourishes and such epic language as had never before been witnessed. I studied English. I was a creative.

That night I shut myself in my room. I dimmed the lights to a suitably creative degree, and opened the bottle of wine I had secreted into my bag during my last visit home. I poured the vintage (Mateus Rosé) into my only wine glass, carefully took out my best pen (a Parker fountain). I was ready to write.

Two hours later, I sat back, spent. The wine was drunk, my ink cartridge emptied, the four pages of A4 I had set aside for my poetic indulgence filled. Curiously, my burning desire to right poetry sputtered after this, and was soon extinguished, as other matters (mainly night out matters) took priority. Eventually I cleared the sonnets I had so lovingly penned from my desk, packing them into an old briefcase, and quite forgetting the incident.

This very week, 4 years after my two hour creative spell, I came across these poems. I think it would be fair to say they fit the stereotype of an arts student; imagine a long-haired, houmous-eating, latte-swilling, tight-clothes wearing young man, and you've pretty much got the idea. Whilst there is nothing specifically wrong with this, there is plenty wrong with the poetry.

I selflessly include one here so that I may save others from falling into the same trap. Beware.

Sides

Two sides, hast I
One is shown,
One is shy.
One I own.
The other I do not.
It belongs to the public eye.
Forget me not,
For then I would die.