Robert Frost once famously said “writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.”
Although this has been the dominant form of poetry for — um — like a hundred years now, I’ve always been more inclined to playing with the net up.
Not trying to restart long-settled fights or open old wounds. I’m just saying I was introduced from a young age to poetry with meter and rhyme, so that’s what I’ve gravitated towards over the years.
So shoot me.
But I must say, Mary Karr may make a convert of me.
Mary Karr is best know for her memoirs, Liar’s Club, Cherry, and Lit. These are wonderful, funny and profound books. They are credited with — or depending on your point of view — blamed for sparking the current trend of confessional memoirs.
But she would consider herself a poet first, and she has a good point.
Full disclosure: I went to school with Mary back in the 70s. And by “going to school with” I mean I was at the same college at the same time for a year or so.
She actually dated — or hung out with .. or whatever we called it back then — one of my roommates back at an off-campus house near Macalester College in St. Paul.
It was a pretty arty scene. We had musicians and songwriters and artists and aspirants all living in close quarters and striving to find their voices.
This roommate of mine was a freeloading squatter who lived in our attic. But he was a talented musician, so we gave him a free pass. He appears on the early pages of Lit, the “Missouri cowboy,” who never seemed to lack female attention.
My primary impression of Mary back in those days: “This girl is trouble.”
I was most certainly right. And she would probably agree.
Later she would date David Foster Wallace, and reportedly inspire him to write Infinite Jest. Or at least, make it good.
But enough with the name dropping.
Mary is one heck of a poet. Exhibit A: a poem called “Suicide’s Note: An Annual.” Pretty universally regarded as being about Wallace after he killed himself.
It’s almost enough to make me consider taking down the net.