"Will Work To End Poverty Poetry"
That's how I defaced a sign at our local hippie haus of coffee, in protest. Slate has the good taste to celebrate "Poetry Month" by "publishing each week a poem that derogates poetry itself or kvetches about bad poetry or denounces public taste in poetry." The first is A FIT OF RIME AGAINST RIME, by Ben Jonson, at the link above.
It's not that I have anything against good poetry, it's just that there's so little of it around.
Paglia bedamned, I can only enjoy poetry when drinking. 'Shit's bad for ya, fucks up yer liver.
Cridland at April 5, 2005 9:45 AM
Poetry is that kind of thing which really should be left to the pro(se)!!!!!!
haha!
whew! So funny. . .
Charlie at April 5, 2005 11:29 AM
Singapore
By Mary Oliver
In Singapore, in the airport,
A darkness was ripped from my eyes.
In the women’s restroom, one compartment stood open.
A woman knelt there, washing something
in the white bowl.
Disgust argued in my stomach
and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.
A poem should always have birds in it.
Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.
Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.
A waterfall, or if that’s not possible, a fountain
rising and falling.
A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
When the woman turned I could not answer her face.
Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together, and
neither could win.
She smiled and I smiled. What kind of nonsense is this?
Everybody needs a job.
Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
But first we must watch her as she stares down at her labor,
which is dull enough.
She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as
hubcaps, with a blue rag.
Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing and rinsing.
She does not work slowly, nor quickly, like a river.
Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.
I don’t doubt for a moment that she loves her life.
And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop
and fly down to the river.
This probably won’t happen.
But maybe it will.
If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?
Of course, it isn’t.
Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only
the light that can shine out of a life. I mean
the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,
The way her smile was only for my sake; I mean
the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.
Lena at April 5, 2005 9:11 PM
Poetry is no excuse to get all prissy and clever, just put it in a verse like this one.
Cridland at April 6, 2005 8:45 AM
Damn good advice, that one! I'm saving it.
Lena at April 6, 2005 10:26 AM
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