Poetry is about economy and creativity — anyone who’s ever had a teacher mention poetry in an educational way knows this. One such high school teacher once told me — or rather, the entire class — that a poet never uses more words than necessary.

This always reminded me of a scene from Amadeus, in which Mozart’s first opera for the Viennese emperor is greeted by the royal criticism, “too many notes.”

Poetry, when done right, has not too many words.

This does not stop poets from excessive verbosity, but the key is to make any word feel necessary ­— and a light study of poetry has led me to believe that works of poetic brilliance are more about convincing others of their amazing status than really anything else.

The math-ematical pre-

cision and intense perfection of verse in some poetry is absolutely marvelous and leaves aspiring poets to sadly scribble their craft in hopes of ever attaining the level of mastery developed by the greats.

I neither love nor hate poetry. I’m rather indifferent to most of it, admiring the skill in some and scoffing the inaccessibility of others. Part of my non-passion for this artistic expression is due to a crappy teacher’s condemnation of some of my early work. She said it was pedestrian, trite and ordinary. Aside from this being my first experience of the word “pedestrian” in a context outside of people walking and “trite” in spoken language, this ruined my attitude towards poetry.

Like the best poets, I poured my soul into these pedestrian trifles. So I burnt them and never wrote poetry again — until I got horrifically bored in lecture one morning.

Haiku is an interesting form of poetic enterprise. It’s almost funny how brief a haiku is: three lines, with a syllabic pattern of five, seven and five. Mozart, with his excess of notes, could never write haiku. The trick — at least as far as I can tell — is to develop an emotional impact with very spare words and create an edgy and creative spin on a minimalist theme.

The haiku I wrote was inspired by our excellent instructor. I call it “Hard Candy,” and it goes as such: “Our instructor is / addicted to those sweet things / crunching in the mic.”

Clearly, it’s not a work of genius. But it will resonate very deeply with anyone enrolled in this specific class.

I’ve developed a repertoire of haiku, cursived into the margins of my notes, covering a range of topics. Some of the highlights include “Bubble Tea”: “Bubble tea, to me, / is utterly deep, sickening / sweet, thick repulsion.” On line with the beverages comes “Thoroughly Trashed”: “Earl’s bar is where / one can get thoroughly trashed / upon just two drinks.” A haiku of more positive tone is “Gel”: “American Crew / is totally the best hair / product money buys.”

For cheap thrills, writing haiku is pretty excellent. Poetry low on the academic and critical radar is often the most accessible.

Really, who cares about obtuse and dull poetic epics? On the other hand, who hasn’t been deeply moved by The Giving Tree? A close friend gave it to me as a birthday present a couple years ago; I suspect the only people lacking in this emotional manipulation are those who haven’t read Shel Silverstein’s book.

Most any poem by Silverstein has pedestrian significance, but what makes that bad? I argue that even if a poem is founded on cheap thrills, the value in it is judged by how readers respond.

The Giving Tree is perhaps the most important book I’ve ever read. Though it only takes about two minutes to write each haiku, I’d like to think that I might reach someone in a similar way.

I continue to write haiku and post them to Facebook in hopes that someone might wonder what brand of styling product to buy.

If they come across “Gel,” my tepid poetic ambitions will be a success.

Reach columnist Matt Jackson at opinion@dailyuw.com.