For my final poetry porfolio, we had to write an “artistic statement” about our work. My professor said we could be as creative as we wanted so I wrote a satirical, self-deprecating foreword for my own collection. All in jest of course…happy finals!
To Whom It May Concern:
Sierra DeMulder’s collection of poetry (if I can even call it that—it is as sprawling as a teenage dream journal) is not a manuscript. It does not contain any semblance of narrative or structure. It is not, as one might hope, a complex, strategically crafted critique of social constructions like gender or the necessity of pants. Nay, my friend! This collection reeks of the pathetic spoils of juvenile ambition: a young writer “experimenting” with “language” like they are they “first” person to “ever” “write” “poetry” (please insert air quotes). It is as if she taped every mediocre poem she ever wrote to the wall her favorite local bar, took five shots (let’s be honest, probably just one) and drunkenly threw a handful of dull darts or wet chewing gum at the wall. Whatever stuck dictated the “chosen ones” for this collection, which is truly a collection in the sense that it is a pile of meaningless words stacked on top of each other like a horrible game of Jenga that just won’t end. Anyway. Allow me to expound upon the world of DeMulder of poems: small, quaint, but not in the-cute-old-woman-knitting way, more in the all-old-people-are-probably-at-least-a-little-homophobic way. DeMulder uses metaphor like the US government uses institutionalized systems of racism to marginalize minorities: too often. Her attempts to be funny have an uncanny resemblance to a puppy drowning. If her writing were a living arrangement, it would be a studio apartment. If her writing were a body of water, it would be not very deep. While reading this collection, I found myself thinking way too much about sandwiches. Also, I am still debating which would be more painful: reading another sappy poem about another of DeMulder’s exes or actually dating her—apparently, it always ends badly. In short, turn back now. In short, publish this collection and a pox upon your children.
Sincerely and with deepest regrets,