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A Trifle Trivial
by
Mike Orlock |
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A Trifle Trivial
By Mike Orlock
There’s a poem kicking inside me--
on that my doctors can agree,
but whether it’s metered and written in verse
or something much wilder (and therefore much worse)
is subject of their whispered consultations
in the pregnant pause between their ministrations.
Dr. Pope, regal in a purple doublet,
surmises that my belly holds nothing but a couplet.
“disagree You with I must, I cannot more,”
disclaims kind doctor Cummings, two e’s before.
“Just look you if you where syntax is swollen!
Like nobody he suffers from a punctuated colon:”
“Sure if that were true,” opines flame haired Dr. Yeats,
“his words would like the gyre carry greater weight.
If this poor fool fancies himself a second cummings,
the least he could do is strive to be amusing.”
“There’s Yankee truth in what you say,” says flinty Dr. Frost.
“The road he’s traveled is well worn, but at what personal cost?
Consider this, my good friend, the best he’ll someday be
is already slouching toward mediocrity.”
“O, but what a stuffy song sung by such learned men,”
spits the wild-eyed and fulminating Dr. Whitman.
“What matters if his poem is long or short or in between,
or care you if, like the grass, his song is even green?
The only thing that matters in matters of this sort,
the poem inside him is a poem inside him and not some barbaric yawp.”
All eyes turned to Dr. Eliot, and his eyes fixed on me
and pinned me to the table with inscrutability.
“The prudent course of action is the one that I propose,”
he nods. “Let’s etherize this S.O.B. and cut his poem to prose.”
“Time to move or be moved,” Dr. Pound, in haste, he states.
“But you better grab a bedpan! He’s ready to create!”
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--Submitted by mjorlock on 2011-05-19.
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