So I borrowed this book about old cultures, spirituality and alcohol brewing, and there was this tale of the Picts us Scots in Scotland where the last two removing Picts would rather see themselves die than tell the secret of their brews to the invading tribe. It was a rather touching, poignant poem by R. L. Stevenson, the same guy from Treasure Island, and the Invisible Man, I think.
Anyway the point is this, that poem was so freaking good I almost burst to tears, and it even rhymed.
Comparing oneself to the great is not good for the ego, but reading the poem it feels like the sort of content that rhymes which I produce shouldn't even be called a poem. Maybe a song, or a ditty at best because those two artistic creations are leagues and leagues apart. Perhaps that also suggests though that I should get in the habit of reading good poetry, the good sort that touches me and makes me want to emulate, instead of youtube and random internet forums?
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