Paeans - and Aches

over the years

Friday, May 11, 2007

Don’t tell my mother I write poetry—she thinks I work in an advertising agency.

I used to write poetry, right from school days. Got one published in the school magazine and all. Wrote quite a few in college too, though most of those were corny attempts at humour.

In the early days (my early days) of the WWWeb, I put some of them online, anonymously, and some kind things were said about them by random strangers.

Emboldened, I showed them to a very lit friend. She called what I wrote Hallmark cards. Perfectly valid, of course, and justified, now that I look back at those specimens; but, delicate flower that I was, I never admitted to writing poetry for, like, ten years or thereabouts after that.

Then, just as a relieved world thought this was permanent, and had let down its guard, another friend queered the pitch. Perhaps she was sorely tried by my dumping large numbers of the things in her mailbox, and she wished to share the pain. At any rate, she suggested I put them online somewhere. Blogs had happened by then, so I shoved the lot on an anonyblog. And started writing more of them. Some worked, some didn’t, and what simultaneously delighted and disappointed me most was that several people who professed not to understand poetry told my avataar of that time that these resonated with them.

That blog service—Rediffblogs, if you must know—sucked raw eggs, so I ditched that blog, and moved to Blogger.

Then I told some people about it. Pals whose opinion I wanted, that kind of thing.

Then a few others got to know of it. And I got to know that they knew. Which spooked me and I took the whole thing down.

But then, I’ve been thinking about it. With a few, a happy few, of them pomes, some smart-type folks, including, like, poets and all, told me that they were not totally crappy. Most of the newer stuff has escaped major mauling at Caferati. I have read at a few poetry thingies. And, besides, I have grown a skin like a frigging rhinocerous since those early days.

So, I figured, what the hell. And I put the blog back on. (After deleting a number of poems that I was either embarassed about or that were too personal, natch. That much I haven’t changed.)

So, gentlefolk, when you have time to kill and are feeling particularly boodthirsty, drop by. Comments most earnestly solicted, either there, or via email, or in person.

A contact in Hallmark, or failing that, Archies, wouldn’t hurt either. Heh. No. Shaddup.

Notes.

The name. You have to mispronounce the first word for the pun to work, I’m afraid. Such is my sense of humour. I did think of Growing Paeans, but that was too close to describing some of the earlier stuff. And there was also Paeans and Needles.. Never mind.

Ah yes. That subject line. The original, attributed to Jacques Séguéla: Don’t tell my mother I work in an advertising agency—she thinks I play piano in a whorehouse.

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