Dazephyr

“What makes a good poem?” I asked aloud with all the innocence I could muster of a person trying to make idle conversation. Of course, I had a vested interest in figuring out if my own poems were better off flushed down the toilet bowl or if they were turds yet polishable.

A collective sigh escaped from my two colleagues seated at the same table.

“Where do I begin?” One colleague lamented with tragic melancholy, while the other alternated between sharp inhalations and stunted exhalations, unsure whether to educate me regarding all the subtleties of the art form or to concede immediately to the impossibility of a succinct response over lunch. The former prevailed.

“A good poem makes good use of language, rhythm and rhyme,” said the first with sagely wisdom.

“What about those that do not have a particular rhythm or rhyme? Is it just the use of language then?” I replied hopefully, clinging on to the desperate notion that perhaps the poems that I couldn’t figure out how to rhyme retained some artistic merit.

“Not really, all three are considered the use of language techniques. Rhythm and rhyme when broken, serve to convey a particular message.” One could faintly hear the sound of an ego deflating.

“So, a clever or witty play on language?”

“Sort of. Why don’t I show you a negative example? Google Lang Leav.”

A few seconds later, this poem was coughed up onto the screen of an iPhone. My other colleague read it aloud with feigned enthusiasm.

“That’s not too bad now, is it? It rhymes. There are some indentations and punctuation thingy – looks clever.” I was genuinely impressed.

“No, not at all!” Her nose wrinkled in disgust, her literary senses affronted. “There’s no soul, no message, just words!”

“Well, it’s about love lost. Isn’t that the message?” I protested.

“No no no, good poetry has layers and it should hit you in the gut as you read it. This is just trite!” There was a quivering note of exasperation hanging in the air.

“I could hit him with the phone,” my other colleague volunteered.

“Try searching for Sylvia Plath instead, you’ll see the difference,” she composed herself and smiled, certain I would get it this time. 

“I don’t get it. What’s it about?” Like a good student, I floored her with my lack of understanding. “It’s too cryptic for me to figure out in one reading.”

“That’s the point!”

Then, it hit me. The sudden realisation of what it was all about.

“I’ve got it! So Lang Leav is like bubblegum pop while Sylvia Plath is your emo independent artist?”

The resounding slap of foreheads and the resigned nods confirmed that I was on the right track.

“Wait, Lang Leav is that popular bestselling author right? Whose favourite quote amongst Singaporeans is ‘chicken nuggets‘? That’s mass appeal!” I exclaimed excitedly amidst inaudible groans.

The fog was clearing up and enlightenment shone like the tropical afternoon sun.

“So just like bubblegum pop, bad poetry is catchy and easy to understand, while good poetry has more layers than kueh lapis and requires some dedication to separate them!”

Satisfied with my newfound realisations, I turned inward to look at my own rhymes. While I doubt I’m anywhere near the standards of good poetry, at least I can hit a few checkboxes when it comes to trite subjects and straightforward language. There’s even talk of beef somewhere. Now, I just need to work on the catchiness part and maybe adopting a name with ample alliteration…