The title of this column is a quote from a lesbian called Wasabi on the
Q forums, and when I read it some months ago, I almost pissed myself
laughing – it’s just so accurate and witty.
What is it about lesbians and poetry? It’s like comfortable
shoes and short hair; it’s one of those stereotypes that’s widespread
enough to work. Before I get lynched by used-tampon-wielding lesbo
poets, let me state here and now that I too write poetry – generally
under the heading “really bad lesbian pottery.” I’ve had a handful of
them published (hey, dykes like handfuls of things), but consider it
cheap writing – it’s just too easy and when I reread it after a few
years, it seems abysmal. Also, I have a theory that the days of poets
and jongleurs are over and that lyrics belong to singers.
Obviously you get good poets and bad poets and poetry is not tied to
sexuality, but where you find lesbians, you will invariably find
poetry. Why? Are we artistic? Anguished? Do we keep our craniums up our
rectums? I claim all three of those descriptions for myself anyway. I
used to write poetry with a great amount of passion, then get all
depressed about the fact that despite requests from a Romanian heavy
metal band (I’m serious), nobody was ever really going to sing anything
I’d written.
I love poetry though. I love Pablo Neruda, many Russian poets,
anything recommended by Jeanette Winterson, my girlfriend and some
members of local online forums. It’s only my own stuff I don’t respect.
And I have only one piece of advice for anyone writing and/or reading
poetry – don’t think. Just express and absorb. Leave your head out of
it and feel it in your heart and your soul and your groin.
If anyone needs me I’ll be campaigning for the reinstation of jongleur as a career choice. Meantime, call me poseur.
