Monday, June 16, 2008

Forgive Me

Alas, The Day of Figurative Language
-of metaphors mixed and extended-is done.
A consortium of academics decided
that they were–forgive me-old hat.
I was–forgive me–on the wing when
this decision was-forgive me-handed down.
I was also absent when the news
reached My Brother and Sister Poets
in-forgive me-The Ivory Tower,
and they were-forgive me-too bummed
to tell me.

Alas, on-forgive me–my appointed rounds,
I-forgive me-get wind of this notion
that there are many kinds of truth.
If you ask me,there are only two truths
that matter: there is the hard truth,
that is-forgive me–hard to face,
and there is the splendid truth,
that is neither–forgive me–captured
nor confined by mere language,
or legalistic pronouncement,
or mnemonic device.

Alas, the lover of words is so thrilled
to–forgive me–be immersed in–forgive me
-the honey of sweet diction that he
pays no attention to a thing so tedious
as the elements of literature. S/he only
manages to–forgive me-master them by
rote memorization. Alas,this feat is
no more impressive today than it was
in–forgive me–The Epoch of Titans Who
Somehow Managed to Create Without

Alas,repetition that is not motivated by–
here’s a little irony for you–
authentic, astonished spontaneity
is–forgive me–a blight on all creativity.
However,it is difficult to deny that
repetition–forgive me–keeps one in the honey;
keeps–forgive me–one’s ass in more butter
than one can–forgive me-bear home in a single
trip to one’s patient spouse, and–forgive me–
the contentious spit of one's mouth.

Also, one's landlord.

Alas, the teacher may -forgive me- make a living,
and may thus, relative to the poet, anyway,
keep–forgive me–both feet on the ground,
and –forgive me – the old noggin in the game,
at–forgive me–the end of the day, s/he likes poetry
well enough, but-forgive me-knows too much to resist
a soft but audible groan as the poet lugs
his notebook to-forgive me-the front of the room,
and-forgive me -

clears his throat.

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