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Unentitled, Installment

Two

My next piece that night, which was introduced as, “Introduction to The Mess” but has since been re-entitled, (each poet got to say two whole pieces!) spread a lot of amusement,   Hearers trying not to laugh, solemn crowd I guess, but that was a good thing because it wasn’t meant to be funny, no.

Still, the more seriouser and seriouser I thought the thing ought to got, the more the Hearers tittered, chuckled, covering not their grinned hush-hawing.   Irked and miffing, reciting in chagrined huffigruffing, they thought that funnier still, ’til the last few lines, when they quit laughing so much, folding arms and scowling, murmured growling, and it all ended up with a true real mess . . .

One day I heard some poetry by Walt Whitman.
The Experts said it was among the best.
They called him the First, and so far Only, American Bard.
Whatever that is . . . the Experts seemed to think it was a good thing.
Wow, I thought, this is going to be good.
But I didn’t like it.
The unrhyming lines,
the unpatterned cadence,
the splattering of unrelated description . . .
I waited for the next one to sound better,
or different,
but none ever did.

One day I heard some poetry by William Carlos Williams.
The Experts said it was among the best.
They said he had Set the Standard for Poetry in America.
Whatever that means . . . the Experts seemed to find it a good thing . . .
I thought, wow, this is going to be good.
But I didn’t like it.
It didn’t sound much different than Walt Whitman, to me.
and, c’mon, “I hogged your plum, mine, too, my love, and loved it (gloating)!”
                                                                                                          . . . really?
That wasn’t even written as a poem, said the Experts, just a note on the icebox.
That’s an insult to hard-working poets everywhere!
. . . and loves too!, especially William Carlos Williams’s.

In both cases, and other places,
the expressions behind the other Hearers’ bobbly-nods reminded me
how doubtful prayers glance furtively,
to show themselves the others see
the fervent prayerly proofs they weave, like
see I also do too true believe . . .
like mutual exclamations, oohs and awes and admirations at their Emperor’s new raiments.

One day I heard a poem by The Next Poet Laureate of the United States,
the Most Eminent of Experts (though I forget the name . . .).
It was called, “To Television”
and was about, Television.
In broken lines of prose it shows
like what and how TV shows show . . .
Attempting to be humorous
at times the lines felt meaningless,
like, “what and how TV shows show . . .”?
Confusing, bland, and feelingless . . .
It mentioned Hermes, Messenger God,
in connection with television.
In the interview later The Next Poet Laureate of the United States laughed
                   because Hermes is also the one responsible for bringing us to Hades . . .

Like I’m supposed to know that, and more poetically appreciate, relate.
At least I knew what Hades was
and learned a new thing about Television
and messenger gods . . .

Why do the Experts admire . . . and mirror . . . and tout . . .
the mundane observation . . .
droned on . . . and on . . . and on . . .
in formless, and endless, rambling . . . practice
posed, and musicless, listing, of images . . .
with, and . . . and, and . . . and, and . . .
as some of the greatest of poetry, why?

What do they know in the knowledge they’ve bought?
What do they see that I do not?
Do they really truly like it?   Would to not to be betraying what they’re taught?

I decided to try to write a poem in that style,
just to see if I could see how Experts see . . .

I picked a mundane subject,
depicted what I saw
in a bland and formless list,
and lots of ands, and,
intendedly devoid of music,
though some crept in there here and there,
though not, like usual, everywhere,
though usually not, like, anywhere . . .

the answer was, “The Mess”:  <ahem!>

It grows
like creeping vines,
insidiously.
The Lego® colors meet,
the dog-food nuggets greet,
the junk-mail torn
in Occupant’s scorn,
each cropping from its source
like spreading leaves,
maliciously.

The dishpile grows and overflows,
and silverware lies here and there,
and kid-food nuggets dot
the barn-tornado view,
and, dropping and drifting away,
books distance themselves from the shelves
like falling leaves,
eternally.

The broken bits of dream,
the plan-scraps torn asunder,
the shadow of forgotten smiles, and fear,
the broken-heart debris
all seize, like roots,
taking,
relentlessly.

. . . and, yeah, maybe the Free Verse is worthier than I thought, but I still believe the Structured is very worth the extra effort.

“Thoughts of an Ordinary Poet, or, a learn·ed illusion: the common man’s fusion to literate allusion” ©

  initials for "Thoughts of an Ordinary Poet"

95 lines

So if you count “The Mess”, I actually got to say three pieces that night.

Even so, during the social hour, some old Professor came up and offered me an honorary poetry something-or-other in the English Department, imagine that.


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