The About Poet

Friday, May 04 2007 @ 04:27 PM EDT

I recently attended several readings (one by a Famous Poet, and one firmly lodged in the amateur realm) of a very painful nature. At the most recent one, the audience seemed divided between people who seemed about to experience myocardial infarctions and people who had just woken from tonic-clonic seizures (to use polite terms). Unfortunately, the General Non-Poetic Public believes that poetry is painful by its very nature, and I don't like to agree with the GNPP in matters of poetry.

Here is a poem I wrote during the Famous Poet's reading:

The About Poet's Poems Are About What They Are About

the about poet’s poems are about what they are about
they roll off the podium line by line and each end-stop
emits a hissy clink distorted by the mike
but the poet does not hear the clamor of his silences
he is busy stretching every vowel
into a midwesternized parody of Olivier’s less
successful Shakespeare adaptations
the ones no one has bothered to colorize

this is free verse in the New and Improved version
with an extra maroon drop shadow added to the iridescent V
on the new cardboard package that surrounds each tube
whose rebranded logo will be forever warped
the first time the wife squeezes in the middle
each non beat says ping ping ping
like my father’s cheap electronic metronome
and my foot inadvertently taps along to the meter
that is not there and pings along until each final clunk
our task today is to identify the big T themes
which the poet has craftily buried
under the compost heap of metaphor and rhyme
the poet teacher is a kind old man
the kind who might not need to eat or sleep
when the last janitor is done
the poet is stored in the art room supply closet
next to squeeze bottles of that sweet orange glue
that covers fingers with a second skin
useful for making fake boogers during lunch
he is a pushover and gives a nice plump clue
before reading each test item as the manual requires
in these brief reprieves when the percussion track has been disabled
and we hear language as she is spake
the audience allows itself to laugh
a pink cloud of relief accretes wispily
winding around the stems of just-ripe chandeliers
so tender and so sweet that there is no need
to peel or dice or cook – just pluck and and eat
the taste entices right away
much as candy trounces broccoli in every match

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