MAP
#71
Theme:
Potpourri
1.
From Dean Blehert of Reston, Virginia, one of AIPF's featured guests
in April:
A
DRUG ON THE MARKET
Does
poetry work? In recent FDA tests
whose
subjects included editors, readers
and
poetry reading audiences, over 90%
were
found to be responding to placebos
(whose
ingredients included attitudes,
ideas,
feelings, buzz words,
vocabulary,
intonations, allusions and
other
elements to suggest what poetry
is
broadly supposed to be, but
included
no detectable traces
of
actual poetry) at least as enthusiastically
as
to the real thing, and 45% of users
actually
preferred the placebos
(found
them less disturbing, easier to grasp,
more
user-friendly). Consequently the FDA
has
suspended all sale of poetry,
based
on insufficient proof of effectiveness.
Poetry
users may still obtain poetry
in
the form of song lyrics, stylish
detective
and romance fiction and
the
things children and old people occasionally
say,
but no products labeled "Poetry"
may
be marketed at this time. Furthermore,
journalists,
advertisers and others who refer to
the
"poetry" of a skater's motion or of
a
symphony or a bird's flight or panti-hose
will
be required to add the following:
"Please
note that the word 'poetry' must not
be
construed to imply any actual insight,
beauty,
tenderness, spiritual expansion or
fun"
and must also include a list
of
the dangerous side effects likely to be induced
by
any ACTUAL poetry that may be present,
especially
if poetry is mixed with other
medications.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2.
From E. Eirik Ott, in No. Cal.
Crushworthy
by
R. Eirik Ott
I
want someone
to
have a crush on me
for
a change
to
notice
when
I don't come to class
and
wonder if I'm okay
to
get nervous
when
I enter the cafe,
to
fumble
with
her papers
and
books,
to
pick at her clothing
and
check
her
reflection
in
salt shakers and napkin holders
to
catch her breath
when
she sees me from across campus,
tug
on her best friend's collar
and
point with her eyes
and
whisper loudly,
"There
he is!"
to
run around the block
as
quickly
and
nonchalantly
as
she can
just
to walk past me
make
eye contact
and
smile
to
look into my big brown eyes
(such
long lashes!)
from
across the room
and
think, "Yes..."
to
look at my full kissing lips
and
think, "Oh yes..."
to
hear my voice
and
imagine
how
her name
would
sound
if
I said it
if
I whispered it
if
I...
"Oh
yes..."
I
want someone
to
make up nicknames for me
to
talk about me in code
"I
saw Backpack Boy today
in
the library
in
the Romantic Lit. secion...
I
saw Steel-Toed Boots Boy
talking
to some girl
(some
girl!)
in
the bookstore today..."
I
want someone
to
go straight home
every
night
and
check her answering machine
just
in case
just
in case
and
check the phone cord
and
check the battery
and
check the tape
and
make sure the goddamned blinking light
isn't
burned out
just
in case
I
want someone to say,
"You're
wrong about him
because
you don't know him
the
way I know him,"
because
she can just tell
that
I'm a good person
must
be
a
good person
gotta
be
a
good person
because
I write poetry about my mom and my cats
and
because she likes me so much
for
some reason
some
unexplainable psychic supernatural reaction
to
me
me.
I
want someone
to
mark her calendar
"He
talked to me today"
to
wonder
what
I would smell like
after
a long warm sleep
under
a down comforter
to
close her eyes
and
picture
what
our kids would look like
to
write silly wretched wonderful
poetry
about
me
for
a change
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3.
From Colleen Wilhite, in Clearwater. Colleen is an Irish lass, for
sure. This poem, however, is, as she wrote: "in memorium for my
aunt and god-mother-in-law who died of stroke a couple of days ago
after years of psychiatric drug treatment. She was a painter,
musican and writer but stopped doing it years ago."
The
guitar
A
forlorn love
mute
The
paint box
Dull
with disuse
shut
The
canvas
Pale
and alone
blank
Pen
and ink
Lie
on a shelf
still
Dancing
shoes
Dusty,
decayed
limp
The
music
No
longer heard
gagged
The
artists
Straight-jacketed
Drugged
Cured
of their creativity
Cured
of their selves
Ask
Hemingway
Ask
Monroe
Ask
my aunt Marilyn
4.
And on a happier note, the last poem from Joseph Powell, who meant to
send it for last week's theme, "Shakespeare in Love." This
piece is included in Joseph's chapbook, "With Unveiled Faces."
Othello's
Deathbed Curse
Loved
too well--
Nay,
accuse me not.
For
I have loved enough
And
then some;
But
never too well.
For
my heart,
Blinded
by love,
Fails
at discernment--
'Tis
true.
For
this crime,
I
am most guilty certain;
Punish
me most severe.
For
the severest penalty
Cannot
equal the pains suffered
Or
loves unrequited;
Nor
match the bitter pill
Or
sourest medicine
Of
unwarranted rejection
Or
unmerited scorn.
Oh
yes, curse the day--
Love
made its acquaintance
Of
me,
Only
to make me a fool;
Or
worser yet,
A
wretched pawn
With
wounded ego
And
battered heart.
Oh
yes, curse the day
I
first set eyes on that
Which
is called woman
And
felt the first spark of desire
To
only have it snuffed out
By
unrecognized eye
Or
unreturned affection.
Oh
yes, curse the day
And,
again, I say, curse,
With
ever-fervent zeal,
The
day, not that I was born,
But
that I have not died,
From
Cupid's arrows flung
Only
to have their mission aborted,
Their
intent gone astray,
Leaving
me naked and ashamed,
Empty
of all feeling,
Numb,
Having
drained the wells of tears dry.
Loved
too well, nay,
I
have loved well enough,
Only
to be haunted time
And
time again.
Nay,
I repeat the aforementioned curse.
Curse,
I say,
Love
and all its vile affectations
Or
affections, if you will,
Or
not, it matters none.
Curse,
my already bleeding heart,
For
availing itself to be made vulnerable;
Made
susceptible to love's deceits
And
woman's charms;
I
say, curse the woman,
The
weaker sex indeed!
Only
in stopping short of inflicting pain
Rather
with dagger sharp or poison sweet
Or
bullet swift
Than
with the pains of scorn or rejection
Which,
in contrast, last the longer
And
inflict not death.
Yes,
all of this and more,
I
say, curse,
And
I say it again,
With
all that is within me,
Curse!
(c)
Joseph Powell