Do you have to be emo to be a poet?

Six weeks of analysing French poetry has led me to a simple conclusion.

Poets are angsty. Angsty and emo.

Maybe it's not their fault - some tragic happening in their life caused all ther problems; nonetheless they seem to write depressing poetry far more often than cheerful.

L'Horloge (The Clock) - Charles Baudelaire
(this page has an englsh translation for the non-francophones)

Horloge! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible,
Dont le doigt nous menace et nous dit: «Souviens-toi!
Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton coeur plein d'effroi
Se planteront bientôt comme dans une cible;

Le Plaisir vaporeux fuira vers l'horizon
Ainsi qu'une sylphide au fond de la coulisse;
Chaque instant te dévore un morceau du délice
À chaque homme accordé pour toute sa saison.

Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la Seconde
Chuchote: Souviens-toi! — Rapide, avec sa voix
D'insecte, Maintenant dit: Je suis Autrefois,
Et j'ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde!

Remember! Souviens-toi! prodigue! Esto memor!
(Mon gosier de métal parle toutes les langues.)
Les minutes, mortel folâtre, sont des gangues
Qu'il ne faut pas lâcher sans en extraire l'or!

Souviens-toi que le Temps est un joueur avide
Qui gagne sans tricher, à tout coup! c'est la loi.
Le jour décroît; la nuit augmente; Souviens-toi!
Le gouffre a toujours soif; la clepsydre se vide.

Tantôt sonnera l'heure où le divin Hasard,
Où l'auguste Vertu, ton épouse encor vierge,
Où le Repentir même (oh! la dernière auberge!),
Où tout te dira Meurs, vieux lâche! il est trop tard!

Notable exceptions: Poems for children?

Wind on the Hill - A. A. Milne
No one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.

It's flying from somewhere
As fast as it can,
I couldn't keep up with it,
Not if I ran.

But if I stopped holding
The string of my kite,
It would blow with the wind
For a day and a night.

And then when I found it,
Wherever it blew,
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too.

So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes...
But where the wind comes from
Nobody knows.

I don't know about that. Sure, the poem sounds happy when you're six, but if you really look at it, it feels like unanswered questions- a perfect metaphor for life.

Maybe I'm just not one who's easily impressed, but it doesn't seem like it should be so hard to write a poem that really is about nice things, not just using nice things as metaphors for pain, suffering, and death. I'd try it myself, but somehow every time I do it turns into song lyrics sans music. Maybe someone should get on that... I'll practise my bass, we could form a band.

It's still not poetry, though. Somehow it seems like that's a less desirable career than it once was.

Oh how my angsty little emo heart breaks.