UNDERSTANDING POETRY

This magazine wants to be on the internet.

This magazine isn’t famous yet.

It’s really proud of itself, this magazine,

But it’s just a whore. It just wants to be seen.

And this poet is a total whore.

They want their horrible poem to be seen some more.

The poem was published. The poet is proud.

At a reading people clapped when it was read out loud.

This poem is ironic blathering

Of a novelist who is lathering

Up readers with feelings we all feel.

But I love this poet, and my poetry is just as bad.

I’m going to get up and read this poem now and make everybody sad.

 

 

 

 

5 Comments

  1. noochinator said,

    May 6, 2018 at 1:04 pm

    Here’s a good quote for that poetry website’s masthead — do websites have mastheads? — from Jakob von Gunten by Robert Walser (trans. Christopher Middleton):

    “One day I shall be laid low by a stroke, and then everything, all these confusions, this longing, this unknowing, all this, the gratitude and ingratitude, this telling lies and self-deception, this thinking that one knows and yet never knowing anything, will come to an end. But I want to live, no matter what.”

  2. maryangeladouglas said,

    May 6, 2018 at 2:10 pm

    THAN TO BE TRULY HAPPY

    they no longer tell you
    that at any given moment
    the Beautiful leans out from Heaven still

    washing the world in silver and gold
    because to them this style of poetry is no longer valid
    embarassing, even

    though who decided this first
    no one knows and spoiled the first birthday
    but you must bow down to despair and to the trending status quo

    or flit the time no longer as in a golden age
    or they will call you mad
    (imagine that)

    or what’s worse, stupid, ignorant
    with a grin on your face in the mud unless,
    somehow you know more now

    than when you were five and could see
    the world alive and yourself in it

    so you abide and make odd jokes
    too blase to say otherwise and too afraid
    in their disguise

    bound to fit into more or less the shroud they have made for you
    but I say otherwise until I die
    and after that too

    because Heaven is still with us
    Beauty has never left the room
    though persecuted to the nines

    and the room is the world
    everytime it rains.even to the verge of
    Flood and rainbow because they are His

    and the silver regions and the mysteries
    the plains at sunset washed in flame
    and the gold of what we were told remains

    even when we don’t want it to because…
    what if someone found us out
    when we were living the fairy tale

    and roses opened and the skies echoed them in music
    every time the birds sang
    and God Himself was a rose and yet

    Eternally and if not why does hope
    spring is us despite everything smashed to bits if
    Christ be not the green and given shepherd

    of your aching soul
    that could not die, that did not die
    when you thought it would

    because He is still alive in you
    and has never left you alone
    though there is cruelty

    though there are those
    who tear time apart
    convincing you to

    acquiesce and play the part
    in a clueless fiat
    and never venture to say

    no, you know otherwise
    that gold has sifted down from the sun
    on the faces of children grown

    who wed themselves to stone unknowngly
    yet who are more than what is on the face of it
    more than the illusion of clouds, shadows

    over the continents and crossroads
    of what transpires on the evening news
    that pass and must disintegrate

    because they are not named
    from any silly stage;
    this is foreign made more foreign

    and tangled, no longer the colours
    of honey ambered and
    and not my nation

    the will to turn away
    and to deny the truth
    that down inside

    where lies do not grow
    and cannot take root
    the beautiful is green, pale geeen

    and still alive in you
    with forever and ever
    and at the Beginning,

    still.
    and only when
    you allow the cynical to prevail

    to rage and Rule and have fits
    has Death come to you
    and by your own will

    because you would rather appear brilliant
    among the crowds on Crowds
    than to be truly happy.

    and filled with Light.

    mary angela douglas 6 may 2018

  3. thomasbrady said,

    May 6, 2018 at 2:57 pm

    Occasionally I peek at what the respectable poets who teach in universities and are widely published in little magazines and publish books and get grants and awards and prizes are writing. The method is this: refer to a book or an article or story in the news by quoting from it liberally (in italics,) throw in some street slang, reiterate the point of the quoted article with a few lines of your own…and…that’s it. This makes you contemporary, engaged, complex, unsentimental, intelligent, and lauded. Who wouldn’t do it?

    • maryangeladouglas said,

      May 6, 2018 at 3:45 pm

      You figured out the formula;that’s for sure. No easy A’s in your class.

  4. Desdi said,

    May 8, 2018 at 11:36 am

    Scarriet will shine as long as contemporary poetry remains boring, boring, boring.
    Your poem is so straightforward it cracks me up.

    I love it.


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