Blank Verse*

126

I’m asked to ignore too much…look the other way.
In fact, I should call my poems empty poems.
“Never-mind poetry,” that’d be a good name.
I’ll write poems about nothing. Poems that say
absolutely nothing but say it well. I’ll write poems
like Rothko’s paintings of voids, great hollow,
pulsating works of art, undulating existential blobs
from the bottom of the sea, written down but just
as well forgotten.

Poems celebrating everything that’s good and wholesome,
that’ll be my racket. Easter eggs before they’re broken,
poems about Elvis as a matador printed on black velvet, with
HOME SWEET HOME embroidered in sequins and little
plastic pearls, with hymns to the Almighty before the sleeping
congregation. They’ll be called blank verse and can be served
with dessert toppings like apple sauce, chocolate or maple syrup.

Those would be apt subjects for a howdy-doody poet like me.
We’ll call them frozen yoghurt poems and serve them on a stick.
Today’s editors dictate the content of poetry. They remind poets
that anything found to be inappropriate will not be tolerated.
They are little Ivy League Gorkys. I’d be happy to write that sort
of thing but only in exchange for a dacha on the outskirts of Moscow.

These sensitive souls demand poetry that won’t hurt anyone’s feelings.
These self-satisfied prudes are backed by their attorneys. “Mustn’t give offense.”
Poetry is to be edited like church letters in the 1940s. They’d change the title
of Ginsberg’s “Howl” to something like, “Help Me!”

By the time I’m finished editing out everything offensive, I’m left with
only 4 or 5 words: the, yet, then, too, and but. All the rest leaves me
subject to house arrest. Everyone is offended by my rubbish as every decent
human being in 1957 would have reviled Charles Bukowski’s poetry,
or T. S. Eliot’s, D.H. Lawrence’s, and surely Kerouac’s. The New Yorker
did so and refused to publish them.

The internet editors now take it upon themselves to enforce common decency.
So off we go, back to the genteel tradition, back to placing covers on piano legs,
back to saying nothing that gives offence, back to the times when dreams meant
nothing, back before Freud, when a pickle was just a cucumber in brine.
And for what? The defense of Christendom? Not at all. No! So we can be nice.
And all this on the advice of their attorneys.

The purpose of poetry after all is to make others feel good. This was cooked up
by some madman, a recent graduate of the school of insanity. Be sure that the fat
feel good about being fat, that blacks have black power, and the disabled are made
to feel they can do whatever the next man can do even if he lives in an iron lung.

I’d prefer to go back to the mimeograph. Forget internet courtesy and creative writing school
notions of politeness. Twenty more years of this and we’ll be back to where we were in the
1900s when Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein left the country. Back then the boobs in charge
were little old ladies with a Bible in one hand and a pistol in the other. Now the magistrates
of decency have MFAs from graduate writing programs with certificates in censorship signed
by the Governor. They can have it.

 


*We are committed to inclusivity and warmly welcome submissions from marginalized voices. We will not consider work with sexist, racist, homophobic, xenophobic, or able-ist content.