Fledges Class

footsteps as I walk to the podium* Lights dim, where words writhe like serpents in the darkness, I concoct a brew of bitter brutalities. “The cacophonies of criticism, discordant symphonies, assails my sensibilities, a symphony of the snob, where the connoisseur of the obtuse cavorts, a dance of ignorance. Your guest here… In the crypt of creative critique, I present an inaugural offering, a pedagogical primer for the fledgling poet/poetess/poetry reader. The point is actual poets shall transmogrify the mystifying nuances of poetry into a digestible dictum, a dictionary of poetic primer, a thesaurus of tongue-lashings. This curriculum, a catalog of creative craft, will dissect the dichotomies of deciphering, dissecting the DNA of diction, and diagnosing the dysbania of poetic insipidity. Unfortunately one shall have to dispel the mystique of metaphorical machinations, illuminating the intellectual labyrinth, guiding the novice through the minefield of ambiguity, and equipping them with the epistemological tools to embark upon the odyssey of poetic innovation. Social media is an auditorium of audacity, where the unwary congregate, I present a potent provocation: the pedantry of the pedestrian, the pretentiousness of the plebeian. You may quibble, you may quarrel, but I quarrel not with the quality of comprehension, but with the quality of inquiry. The refusal to engage, the expedient excuse of lack of understanding, functions as an apologetic boomerang, reflecting not the complexity of the work, but the deficiency of one's own cognitive arsenal. I shall not condescend, nor shall I compromise, for I am not a pygmalion of platitudes, nor a sycophant of self-flattery. The mob may murmurate, but the poets majestify. In this impresario's pavilion, where impresarios promenade, I impart a scathing scrutiny: the marketplace of mediocrity, where merchants of mediocrities peddle their wares. Your spleen-filled salvos, laced with honeycomb venom and vitriol, besmirch the sanctity of the sonic sphere, where syllables and syntax converge in a cacophony of creativity; You declaim about openness and expression - yet your own prison of pedestrianism restricts the reach of your remarks. Your demands for precision and craft are as hollow as the hollowed echoes of your own silence - I will not be swayed by the soothsayers song of self-importance, nor will I be silenced by the banshee screams of a sensitive soul. I am the mistress of macabre - the monarch of grotesquerie - and I shall not be diminished by the din of your indignation.”