Poets
(Author Note: It's a little long, but I hope worth it)
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
I went to Barnes and Noble
to kill my lunch hour
and scan some
poets.
A thousand miniature
monuments to
too much self-congratulation
many with covers
of abstract art
and titles vague and
not compelling
each one blurred
into the next
how am I supposed to know
the
right
one?
They all have
the same text
the same font
the same mildewed pedigree
I try to be open
so I pick something
that looks
light
contemporary
possibly relevant
I try reading
the words
I am numbed
by their vocabulary
and something
that they think constitutes
technique
and it is all
so precious
so earnest
so boring
all this reading
about the inner lives of
people who I wouldn’t even
want to have a conversation with
it’s no wonder that I lose interest
I look at their pictures
read their bios and try to
understand them
“Teaches at XYZ University”
“Won the XYZ prize for Poetry 1994”
all I can think is
a) sat on his tenured ass looking out
the window at the New England fall leaves while wearing his best tweed jacket and waiting for inspiration, or
lazy white man whose father paid for everything.
What can he illuminate for me?
Has he been an adulterer, a liar, an alcoholic?
Was he sexually molested and does he suffer from obsessive-compulsiveness?
Has he broken hearts?
Has he stayed up late worrying about credit card debt?
Is he afraid of his own individuality?
Has he ever wanted to be invisible?
Just how human is he?
Has he earned my respect?
I don’t have time for all that
questioning.
I put the book down
disappointed that I haven’t liked
what others have apparently liked.
Once again,
the odd duck.
I go back to work
and then go back home
and then go to sleep
and then wake up
and write some more
ramblings such as this
before my kids
wake up
and need to be fed
and lunches need to be made
and they need to be taken
to school
and then its
back to work for me.
I can’t relate to
too many poets.
I’m too busy living my life.
to kill my lunch hour
and scan some
poets.
A thousand miniature
monuments to
too much self-congratulation
many with covers
of abstract art
and titles vague and
not compelling
each one blurred
into the next
how am I supposed to know
the
right
one?
They all have
the same text
the same font
the same mildewed pedigree
I try to be open
so I pick something
that looks
light
contemporary
possibly relevant
I try reading
the words
I am numbed
by their vocabulary
and something
that they think constitutes
technique
and it is all
so precious
so earnest
so boring
all this reading
about the inner lives of
people who I wouldn’t even
want to have a conversation with
it’s no wonder that I lose interest
I look at their pictures
read their bios and try to
understand them
“Teaches at XYZ University”
“Won the XYZ prize for Poetry 1994”
all I can think is
a) sat on his tenured ass looking out
the window at the New England fall leaves while wearing his best tweed jacket and waiting for inspiration, or
lazy white man whose father paid for everything.What can he illuminate for me?
Has he been an adulterer, a liar, an alcoholic?
Was he sexually molested and does he suffer from obsessive-compulsiveness?
Has he broken hearts?
Has he stayed up late worrying about credit card debt?
Is he afraid of his own individuality?
Has he ever wanted to be invisible?
Just how human is he?
Has he earned my respect?
I don’t have time for all that
questioning.
I put the book down
disappointed that I haven’t liked
what others have apparently liked.
Once again,
the odd duck.
I go back to work
and then go back home
and then go to sleep
and then wake up
and write some more
ramblings such as this
before my kids
wake up
and need to be fed
and lunches need to be made
and they need to be taken
to school
and then its
back to work for me.
I can’t relate to
too many poets.
I’m too busy living my life.
