You've heard them.
You have gritted your teeth at their recitation.
You've sunk under the rim of the dining table in replacement embarrassment at their faltering delivery and have insincerely applauded their merciful termination.

And you've probably, at some point in your life, written them.

There is no word in English for them that I am aware of, but in dutch they are called "versjes".
"Beuzelrijmpjes".
"Rijmelarij".

They are poetry as it would be written by an alien who'd heard the term and read an example-less entry about it in a children's encyclopedia.

Here's an example, fresh out of my sleeve:

(should be recited with a mixture of "heehee this is just some silly fun" and a teary-eyed lump-in-the-throat kind of emotionality)

"Dear mother, it is your day
and now we are all happy and gay
because we party in your honour
if you were sad, that would be a bummer
we love you all a lot:
me and dad and cousin Margot."

After which the dear mother breaks down in tears along with the reciter, exchanging somewhat sniffly hugs while the assembled table-guests applaud and refill their glasses.

You see this kind of behaviour at the oddest moments. Perhaps it's a Belgian thing, but whenever people want to express their affection (be that motherly or passionately), they revert to this travesty. I've even seen people do it on television.

It makes me cringe. It makes me want cut out my ears with the fish knife and replace them with wads of baguette-innards. I prefer having my teeth violently pulled out with an escargot-clamp and having their sockets filled with hot coals and rusty needles, rather than endure another round you-true-blue-too.

It's not the soppiness of the "boohoo I love you so much" behind it which I so despise. I'm known to go all buttery at times where my loved ones are concerned, especially when the venena has not yet reached the cauda. I understand soppiness. I can relate to it and tolerate it, as long as it is an honest soppiness.

It's the shape.
It's the implication inherent in the shape.
The implication that poetry is a frivolous waste of time, a pleasantry, a party gimmick.
The implication that mere mortals cannot write poetry which goes beyond "I love you, love you me too?".

Somewhere along the course of its life, the young child is subjected to poetry. Typically, this poetry is tailored for children, because we seem to take it for granted that children are stupid and must be fed drivel in their early years.
Nursery rhymes are rhymes without a reason. Shape over content. Lyrical nonsense, to have something to say when we can't find words of our own. More often than not, they rhyme.
The bow which breaks and the tiny star that twinkles.

Later on in kindergarten and later still, in junior high, more shape is presented - often force-fed - to the child, again with little content. A passengerless ghost-ship on a sea of words. An ungainly flightless bird which goes "Skwawk" when it could sing if only its creator would have put up an effort.

The cat
sat
on the mat

And the connection is made.
Poetry rhymes.

And that's where the story ends for most people. Poetry rhymes. Ergo, if it rhymes, it must be poetry. Words can be supercharged by making them rhyme. It worked for Shakespeare, so it'll work on Aunt Prunella's birthday party too, surely?
Poetry which doesn't rhyme is "difficult" and for beatniks only.

Most people are stuck at this point. Somewhere along the line, the implication is made that poetry is either difficult or a romantic waste of time. Either it's a love poem (which is only ever good for young lovers and improper for "real adults") or it's elitarist hogwash for snobs and parvenus.

Never in their lives are they introduced to the idea that, while poetry is a deeply personal endeavour, it need not be exclusively personal. It need not be constrained within the small identity of neither its own shape or its own author.

I'm not having a go at these people. Part of our identity is in our upbringing, and to be honest, we are not brought up with poetry in mind.

I'm not even advocating Art here. Art is what other people call the things they think themselves incapable of making.

I'm talking about a love for words, I suppose. A love for the power of words in a larger ensemble, for the alchemical transformation a single word when combined with another.
A love for the power of words over the hearts of others.
For the catharsis of writing these words, and the deliverance of reading them.

Words, be they poetry or not, have the ability to make us transcendant, to overcome the restrictions of our Self, by showing our audience what's beyond the words.

Too many people are denied this love - or deny it to themselves perhaps? I don't know- and never escape the lure of the reasonless rhyme. Like every other aspect of their lives, their art is fettered and immutable.

And as the next table-guest rises for yet another round of muse-abuse, I glance at Calliope from the corner of my eye, hoping I'll beat her to that tempting escargot-clamp.

Greetz'n'hugz to y'all

Jo (Just)