Those Who Sneer

Pretty Death

They make death sound so pretty -

As he said of Rupert Brooke,

“A voice is stilled” -

Not dead, not rotting

In the earth forever,

But “stilled” -

A quiet pond at eventide.

10-24-11

Those Who Sneer

No Romantic writing on my tomb -

(I shall not have a tomb,

I have no money) -

Just my name – whatever that may be.

Keats was beautiful. And I presume

I'm truth.

The jester told another joke.

Throughout my life I've always been an ass.

I never knew a thing.

But I had friends.

And here's a truth. My friends were not the kind

Who sneer, and therefore did not sneer at me.

And those who are (what did they want with me?)

Sneered until the pain had ceased to hurt.

And I laughed, but did not run away.

And those who sneer – lets go behind the flats

And forage through the props to see

Them sneer at someone else.

They don't. They never do. But those who do

And only sneer at me, have only one

Attitude for me, and that is it.

And I attract them. Take my life from them,

Beginning at my birth. Why must they be

In my life? And stick to me like flies.

And those who do not sneer – a deep relief

Of easing pain – alone it makes me cry -

Simply do not ever sneer at me.

Not Like Keats

Keats diverted me when I was young.

When I was young, I wrote some poetry.

But this is how I write. I am not Keats.

Keats made magic, but not every time.

Though Keats possessed some magic in his soul,

I love to read his personality.

Though I cannot, I'd rather write like Keats.

What is this? Just more Yankee verse,

Flat and uninspired like the rest.

 

Casting off all vestiges of Keats

Casting off all vestiges of Keats,

Naked, what I write is not a joy,

Although it's soothing just to feel it said,

Unaware of what it's going to be

Before I think it, write it on the page.

Is this masturbation? Were it live,

Would it be sex? Or artless narcissism?
Poets who stand gazing at their souls

Until they have forgotten all the world -

Bigots, wars and prudes,

Families and prigs,

And everyone who wishes they were dead -

So the poet loves and loves himself.

That love is not reflected in his songs.

 

They

The monster came. The fool just sat and stared

Like a reptile looking at the sun,

When it isn't strong enough to run.

The monster roared. The reptile didn't move.

Then the monster quieted,

Let grief divert his will.

The monster and the reptile became one.

On earth and under god, they were in love.

 

A Joke

My mother who was really quite pathetic -

Screaming like a naked knife, a banshee

In the black and fulsome graveyard of the night -

And frequently she'd sit alone and cry.

It made me sad

To see my mother sit alone and cry.

Did I love her? There was some attachment.

Imprinting is for chickens.

I wouldn't call it love.

Once she asked my father did he love her.

He answered, “Well I'm here.”

Yeah. So's the toilet.

 

I want to love my poesy

I want to love my poesy

When it's not like Keats.

Once it was like Keats,

I loved it then.

Newly minted pictures,

Phrases out of god,

All interwoven, hung together,

Interlocking words,

Like the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

Stand back and look and see it is a scene.