I’ve often struggled writing poetry (and prose) because my ego gets in the way. My inner critic blocks the creative flow and micro-analyses the placement of every letter. However, I’ve found that the ego is an indispensable component of any quality writing. The ego picks up the pen and sets the time aside and the self eventually reveals itself, often in the most beautiful way. The secret is to find the proper balance between ego and self, for it is not possible to write with one and not the other. Truly it is a love-hate relationship but a necessary duet.
Sometimes, the best thing we can do is just let the ego hold the pen and have at it. My ego has been a royal pain in the ass lately. So I thought I’d let my “self” sit this one out and see just what my ego had to say, if given his own voice. The results were surprising and can be viewed below.
“There is no greater Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter oneself into an idea of being a great poet.”—Keats
“Another and unexpected development in modern poetry is that writing the damned stuff is now often more popular than reading it. Poetry has become the favorite nostrum or therapy in this narcissistic age. I have looked into the matter carefully and can report that there are now 2,578,000 more poets in the United States, Argentina, and the Western Isles of Scotland than there were thirty-five years ago.”—Alfred Kazin
For a wonderful treatment of the above subject, and a thoroughly enjoyable review of what’s wrong with poetry today, may I suggest you read
the Worden Report.Here’s my ego-laden poem – It’s a fun jab at myself, but believe me, I very much needed to say this! All I can say now is that after I wrote this, I feel so much more honest.
It's All About Me!
I am an egomaniac
my “I” did say to me
Admiring every syllable
In blissful reverie
My opinion, this night’s headline news
supplants the cataclysmic
Of course! But what would
you expect from one so narcissistic?
Arise the Sun! Be still the Moon!
The Earth turns as I say
The stars dance ‘cross the heavens
In my grand celestial play
My inventions go un-patented
No fear of duplication
Nor can I spare a moment
out of my self-adoration
I needn’t say I love you
For such words are insincere
Besides we both know who among us
I do hold most dear
Excuse my lack of humbleness
Humility, resignation
But apparently I suffer from
An ego-sized inflation
Be gone all those who criticize
I will not be diminished!
By now I guess you’ve figured out
my therapy’s not finished
By Dennis Tkon Copywrite 2006