Free(But Maybe Evil. . .)

I write bad poetry. I hope to some day soon write decent poetry, and before I die at least write good or even great poetry.

But writing poetry is not nearly so simple as "expressing yourself." Like all things worth doing, it is hard to do well.

As I try and learn how to write decent poetry, I've been wondering about formal verse versus free verse. . .OVERSIMPLIFIED DEFINITION: formal verse has meter and rhyme, free verse doesn't, except perhaps occasionally.

I don't know if I like free verse or not. . .my gut reaction is to think it's trash. . .but when I look closer, I'm not sure. . .T.S. Eliot is free verse, and I'm starting to like a lot of his stuff(I've always loved his ideas, but just recently have I started to enjoy some of his style).

The thing is, free verse is the spirit of the age, and I doubt any real poetry would ever go over well. . .

Oh well. Here's a silly poem about my inability to say goodbye, and it sounds more dark than it really is; it's really an experiment, an attempt to say the same thing in formal verse(Pretty strict Iambic Tetrameter), and then again in free verse. . .here goes:

I never seem to say farewell
The way I would desire to
I stumble over words that tell
That I have not the skill some do
To say goodbye, and therein kill
The communion that with it brought
Joy so bright that I feel it still
(But joys we hold too close shall rot)
And here's my failure, here's my flaw
I cannot suffer joy to fall
I cannot bring an end to awe
Or deny beauty's wond'rous call
I am learning slow to live but I
Wonder if I'll ever learn to die?


I never seem to say farewell
The I wish I could, the way I would if I had but

the ability(which I lack)
I murmur something about being forced to leave, in such a tone that tells

That I lack that(the ability)
which others seem to have attained
To smile, wave, and say goodbye
and
so Murder
The wond'rous communion that brings such
Joy
that still, still is felt within my soul
But Joy
clung to too desperately rots to putrid stench
This, this is my problem and my flaw
I won't see this
(the murdering of joy)
I won't see this
(The tragic death and end of awe and
wonder)
some days, like today and everyday I also find
I cannot force myself to pretend I do not hear, and
so avoid the cry of
beauty
They are teaching me, writing on the blackboard
And I am dutifully learning, scrawling in my notebook, but learning how to live
But shall I ever learn to die?



I realize now that I purposely tried to make the free verse ridiculous and bad at points. . .
but I wonder. . .there's something about Free Verse, even if I hate it . . . it's called free verse for a reason. . .but oh well.
Thoughts?