What A Poet Should Write, Dear Father.

Yesterday, as Mum sat in the front passenger seat, my dad, David Browne driving, and I sat in the back seat dad was giving good, brutally honest opinions, and interesting advice about my work as a poet. " Either I'm dumb, and I a genius," he remarked through the thought of not being able to understand or perceive some of my poems, which in reality is very true. His advice to me was that in order for a reader to feel and adhere to the poem the storyline must flow through the poem from beginning to the end. So, in the meaning of a poem, I mustn't lose the content, storyline. and the pitch of the poem which in reality, again is very true, and understandable. Firstly, I am far from anywhere near being called a poet. How can I or even dare to title myself as a 'poet' when I am fully aware of what amongst all the greatest poets that have lived, read, and loved to write poetry just leaves me hung up on the washing line? That left me thinking, and thinking is the making of a poet. A poet is not a man of action, but a man who is a maker. I am a maker of putting words together in a way in which maybe one day I will become known as a 'poet'. My father wasn't being in any means what so ever trying to ridicule me but just wanted to teach me in which how a poem should be written for it to be clear, honest and with a storyline which actually people can understand it to either like or dislike the work written. I am, first of all, what I prefer to be called a writer of words. I can write 100 sentences of worldly life and experiences etc etc etc and in the fitting form or rhythm and rhyming forefronting the whole poem with each sentence I write, It makes me feel freer to learn the understanding of what you can actually be named as a 'poet' rather than just a beginner, which in reality is what I am. Ametuer, who knows?. Is there room for judgement, encouragement, agreeing or disagreeing what a poet should write, the format or style. A whole mixture of events which takes place when I go crazy tapping the heck out of my poor keyboard. So, for now, I'll just settle in being me for the moment. That's the best way I believe. Being me means loving to write in an unorthodox way sometimes or just go along with writing another love story which fits in the conventional market of being amongst billions of people writing the same poem. I don't want to be near there. I just want to keep on writing, and in years to come, with advice from my father, of course of having the ability, wisdom and words which will make not only be overwhelming for me but most importantly, the people who will actually come across any of my written books and buy one someday.
Ps, The poem below is the world-renowned Scottish poet 'Robbie Burns. As my father is Scottish and after he said I must study up on him so I came across this one. Understanding??? It's called 'Gie her a Haggis'. Enjoy!!

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang ‘s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!