What is poetry?

(Morden Hall Park, London)

I was reading a letter in a writing magazine recently and it pointed out that humorous poetry doesn't really get a look in in competitions and discussed why this is. I had to agree with the writer of this letter. It seems that if you write humorous poetry it is not considered worthy of a prize - it is not 'serious' poetry. Quite often the prize winning poem is something you would need a degree to understand (or based on some obscure Greek myth). Poetry needs to be accessible. If I need to decode, re-read and look up things in books before I 'get it', it takes away all the pleasure. I did have to do this when I took my Open University course and, I admit, I found it interesting, enlightening even, but I don't want to do this every time I read a poem. I like poetry to 'speak to me', finding a string of words that I identify with personally. Sometimes I may read a poem too quickly but a sentence will shout out at me. Then I will re-read it, slowly and then it comes together. Poetry should cause a reaction in you - that might be an 'ah' moment, make you cry, make you reflect or stir memories, or it can make you angry, disturb you. It can work on so many different emotions and if it does that then it has done it's job. I do realise that everyone has there own preference in poetry (and poets) and that is the same with books, paintings and anything creative really. Judges feel this way too and that might have something to do with the outcome of competitions. However, back to humorous poetry. Why is it that it is treated like a second class citizen? I enjoy a good laugh when reading and enjoy the offerings of Steve Turner (he writes for adults and children) and Roger McGough. Even a funny poem can have a serious theme and make you think. It is just as creative (and takes the same hard work) to write something humorous as a serious (high brow??) poem. Carol Ann Duffy (new poet Laureate) has written some amusing poems so if it's okay for her it's okay for us, right?

So here is a little offering of mine: (I'm not saying this is Carol Ann Duffy standard at all!)

Cooing
So here I am, sitting on the fence
with you edging towards me, one grey
foot over the other, bobbing your head,
feathers fluffed, strutting your stuff.
You won’t take no for an answer.

And there it is, the object of my desire
lying on the grass.
I glide down, the breeze caressing
my feathers, turning you on
and you follow me down to the ground.

I stab at a crust while you prance around
bobbing and cooing, cooing and bobbing
and I turn and take a stab at you.
You fluff and then strut, you bob and you coo
What is a poor bird to do?

Our beaks meet, a clash, you blink,
you cock your head this way then that.
Perhaps it’s the twinkle in your eye
but I fly, hoping you will follow,
my appetite gone and forgotten.