There was a period of about two years when I wrote some poetry. Too much time on my hands, I suppose, too many hours spent alone. A case of, “talk to the page!” This blog existed at the time, and I would post a poem once in a while. They seemed to make people angry, mostly.
I look at the old files from time to time. Some of them I don’t like much at all, but some I think might be okay. This one might be okay.
“Lives in Poetry”
If I could have written kitty sixteen five feet one white prostitute,
I would have cried for happiness, sixteen minutes at the very least,
And then I would have seriously considered killing myself from the pressure
Of ever having to do it again, but that’s me.
John Donne, Shakespeare’s Shakespeare if I don’t miss my guess,
No one knows his name now; how do you pronounce that anyway?
No man is an island, indeed, and death be not proud,
I could not agree more if it had been mandated in the legislature.
Poor Edgar Poe, how many words a month did he turn out
In his brief life? Mistreated now by history, like anyone could care
If he got loaded, or had strange relationships, go and read
The comedies, or try “The Philosophy of Furniture” for drollery par excellence.
Isn’t it odd that Wall Street bankers fart money and Ferraris,
While poets can hardly afford to eat rice and beans,
Unless they teach Whitman to nineteen-year-old cretins
Out in the desert somewhere?
April 22, 2008
By the way, “kitty, sixteen, 5’1,” white, prostitute,” is a poem by e.e. cummings. Google also shows it as "5'11," but one hundred years ago that would have made poor Kitty the tallest woman in London! So I'm going with 5'1."