Thursday, September 14, 2017

International Mockery Of The Donald

Here's a very nice poem about the Donald by the Chinese poet, Yan Li.

Yan Li was born in either 1954 or 1962, depending on where you are reading about him. He was a member of a group of artists called "the Stars," who seem to have been a daring bunch of iconoclasts back when it was unusual in China, not to mention a bit dangerous, to act like that.

Poetry International Web dot net describes his poetry as being "formless, artless," and suggests that he is an "effortless presenter of his ordinary self and his ordinary experiences . . ." He rejects craftsmanship and recreates spoken language, and he is very direct in his meanings. That's what they say, and this poem seems to resemble that description.

The Mistake

You are not smart enough.
You are not skilled enough.
You are not good enough.
And you know.
You are filled with fear.
It leaks from your arms.
It leaks from your legs.
It leaks from your eyes.
New York is done with you.
The “elite”
whose respect you've always coveted
are done with you.
The world,
in all its corridors of opinion;
its allies and enemies,
is done with you.
And you know.
Even as you walked out of your bedroom
the night after the election,
promising yourself fanfare and greatness,
the weak creature that is coiled
intestine-like around you
knew you would never rise to the office.
The gravity of your pride
was too intense.
So you failed the first trial
and the second.
Your judgement revealed as flimsy,
your strategies impotent.
You just kept failing.
And you know.
The paintings on the walls –
Lincoln, Kennedy, Bush, Clinton, Obama –
testify to your inadequacy.
When you are measured in paint,
you will be smaller.
When you are listed in ink,
you will be less.
The Mistake.
Around the world, you have already been pinned –
in art and music and plays,
in sounds and pictures and words –
to idiocy;
like a beetle stuck to a display case.
Your face is idiocy.
Your name is idiocy.
Your children's inheritance is idiocy.
The entire edifice is wasted.
There will not be an “after” to this.
This is the permanent, final state of things.
You have lost everyone
you wished to be associated with
and you are left with monsters.
All you have now are monsters,
and there is no power,
no speech,
and no action
that can pull you from that pit.
And you know.
You can pretend to enjoy their embrace.
You can keep remaking,
destroying, and distracting,
but nothing can erase the fact that
at your foundation,
you were never good enough.
The world sees it.
Those you love see it.
You, with the monsters.
You, the shame of a nation.
You, filled with fear.
Cause you know.
You know.
May you know it
for all the remaining years of your life.

by Yan Li

I find this poem to be very successful, readable and enjoyable. I like it, which is not surprising to me at all. Not only does it mock someone whom I believe deserves all of the vicious mockery that the world can generate, but it also reminds me of my own style, when I was in my poetry period (about ten years ago).

I laid off, because anyone who desperately wishes to be loved should avoid poetry at all costs. People really fucking hate poetry.

1 comment:

jomode said...

Self fulfilling prophecy.