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Array
(
[sid] => 146818
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => One Retort
[time] => 2008-12-13 22:48:41
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => I would not let them in. I would not let them traipse Upon the drapes. Poets of my ilk Yearn for words seamless as silk. At night, flicking off alarms, Poets fear a creature who disarms Baleful dreams, Then hold fast to their nightmare-themes. Upon waking, when nothing that they utter Is saved but for the gutter, Poets lick parapets. Poets tread florid carpets Because all night cold toes Paced the hard floors of prose. No, I would not let them in. At breakfast, poetry jams and jellies, Sugarcoated low blows, hits to the bellies, Words at pity-driven altitudes; Still we complain about the foods And nurse our yellow pads of notes Like partisans who mourn lost votes. One colleague, want to grab at gender roles And stab at floating donut holes, Is predominately female, Though she sometimes does impale Her fork into a beast. The beast is orthodox —A minimalist, a silver fox— Bent like Thoreau and nature-stern, Taken aback by another’s will to spurn. So I would not let them in. We can stomach The modern writers, anemic Without that buff grace, muscle, ligament, Who seize the extra condiment. They are quick To self-deprecate, deny that an alembic Lives, then eat at untapped rates, Acting like token ingrates. After breakfast, a few fear frisking brooms, Running faucets, uproarious vacuums That inhale all precious crumbs. Some twitch, twiddling their thumbs, And flinch, Seeing all the rhymes left to clinch Sucked into mass-abyss. Then these lean poets grow listless Hypocrites who feasted on immense Meals, abruptly making dense, Slouching fools with sloth Creeping in, froth Around their mouths. We move To the living room. Others occupy the groove In the couch I claim. And critique New upholstery in their bard-speak, Wishing for old silk brocade —Decade after decade— Because I would not let them out; Now ghosts roam about. I would not let them through the door, Not with eclogues, sonnets, nor With their hearts in mail and splendid Unfoiled gifts of kindred Apathy For all to see. -------- My lament for the dead is not concise. It croons and rattles. Ghosts dice The lines to moribund clauses. These I execute with pauses. I blame bold sobs For my halting, then door knobs Wiggle eerily. So it is the tears! I propose, and chandeliers Crash. Ghosts poke at this old stalwart, Looking for one just retort. In time, I stowed away incense, Shedding big deference For these bitter wraiths, then laughed At the mawkish cadence of my craft. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 172 [topic] => 69 [informant] => screwge [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => poets )
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