Just for Giggles

I’ve always hated poetry, and really only read it when I thought I was supposed to like it.

Really, whatever deeper meaning or message I was supposed to glean from the sparse stanzas just went right over my head. It’s the same reason I don’t like Ernest Hemingway novels either, but that’s a different story.

I know this is kind of weird coming from an English teacher. Don’t get me wrong, I occasionally have flashes of insight where a poem makes sense to me, at least a little bit. I’ve even written a few decent poems myself.

But the true masterpieces didn’t come until I decided to enter a contest for humor poetry. My submission: a rhyming poem about dog poop (which totally isn’t based upon true events) that I composed while showering and apparently while possessed by the spirit of Shel Silverstein or Lewis Carroll.

And then I wrote another. And another. And still more, about the silliest subjects. A goblin who eats shoes. A child making soup out of soap because he’d misread the label. A bird battling its own reflection in a car’s side-view mirror. A farting leprechaun.

The second poem in my series, about the goblin, came about after I called my little dog, who had just wriggled underneath some furniture, a goblin. I felt the shape of the word “goblin” in my mouth and found myself saying “gobble.” And when I found a word that rhymed with “gobble,” I found myself saying “cobble” and sitting down to write, trying to find some way to string all of those funny words together.

And that was how I stumbled upon my passion project of writing more and more silly poems and found a way to make poetry meaningful to me.

Use funny words. Play with language. Break as many rules of grammar and syntax just to maintain my own arbitrary rules of rhyme, rhythm, and structure.

It doesn’t have to be deep to be worthwhile. It just has to be fun.

It also helps when it can pay the bills.

Unfortunately, bygone are the days where wealthy patrons would shower riches upon artists and playwrights for their talents—with the occasional shout-out to the ones putting food on the table.

Or are they?

The concept of patrons seems to have made quite the revival in the digital age, where followers and fans can donate to their favorite content-creators, be they YouTubers, podcasters, or any other type of artist.

Except it’s better now than it was in Shakespeare’s time. Now I don’t have to wander up to the homes of the rich and shake a tin cup at them. Nor do I have to suck up to them every time I write a poem to make sure that they keep it coming.

First of all, there’s a lot more people in the world now. Not all of them are rich, but when enough of them contribute even a little bit, it makes a world of a difference. Second, within reason, I can write whatever I want. I don’t have to make Mr. Fancypants the hero of my story who is so incredibly handsome and smart that he makes all the bad guys keel over and gets the girl every time.

I could write a poem about a dragon who gets stuck in a tree or a bunch of grown-ups who end up in a witch’s cauldron because they don’t listen to their kids who know better.

And why stop there?

Why not do more with my poems than I would have if I didn’t have patrons and members? Sure, I could have a base membership where I release a new poem each month. But why not add another tier where members get illustrated versions of the poems? Or another tier where members get illustrated versions and recorded readings?

Not only would I earn support from members all over the world to read my poems, but I would also add new elements to my poetry and be able to experience my writing from new angles. I would learn more about myself and my writing process, and everyone would be able to see and hear the poem from my perspective.

Plus, I’d get to pay rent.

I’d also like to think that I would help make the world a little bit better if even one person enjoyed my poems and got a laugh out of them.

It almost sounds too good to be true.

Almost.