I’ve never mastered it. The rant, the screed, the protest — they’re all mysteries to me, even to this day. Oh sure, I’ve written plenty of poems about things that made me mad; one even took third place in the 2012 Robert Frost International Poetry and Haiku Contest sponsored by the Studios of Key West. “The Words I Hate and Why” was a poem that had a certain “slit-your-throat-before-you-know-it” quality. It made people go “ooh” painfully at the end, and it caused them to wince in empathy for the poem’s speaker. The piece certainly accomplished its aim: It hurt the person it was intended to hurt, almost irreparably so. This damage may be one reason I don’t typically write “angry” poems. Their cost is just too great.

Recently, I had a mentor look over a few works of mine dealing with issues that I can get pretty passionate about. His advice: “At some point, John, you’re just going to have to come right out and say, ‘I’m pissed off about this.'” Trouble was, I was being artful and allegorical about anger. It’s an old habit and one I’ve tried to break, but when it comes to writing stuff that riles me up, I prefer to be subtle rather than overly didactic. There’s already too much bad poetry written from irrational, spewing minds.

Even when I was in the MFA program, prior mentors encouraged me to unleash the acerbic wit, the well-timed pejorative, or the harsh critique. My upbringing sometimes prevents such invective, however. Every time I’ve been angry and acted on it, by word or by deed, regret has inevitably followed. To use my poetry to launch malice or hostility into this world would be a mistake. Don’t we have enough of those things already?

Just today, I drafted a poem that responded to some pseudo-political drivel penned by another poet who shall remain nameless. My reply poem is deft. It is cuttingly and cunningly crafted. And more than likely, I will wad it up and throw it out by the end of the week. To allow someone else’s poorly informed and warped worldview to infect me with stress is to let that someone else win. They’ve had their (poorly wrought, dogmatic) say, and they will forever be able to look back on that waste of phonemes. But I don’t have to react…not with words, not with time, not even with further thought. Do I protest too much? Maybe. But let’s pretend it’s over, anyway. Life’s too short.

I intend to keep writing about those themes, people, and ideas that have merit and worth — “Whatsoever things are lovely,” to borrow a phrase from Paul. This doesn’t mean I’m going to be Pollyanna about the darkness in the world or matters that deserve righteous indignation. But it does mean that I will continue finding other catharses besides poetry. If you want to read some angry tirades, you’ll just have to look elsewhere. Sorry Not Sorry.