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A Trifle Trivial
by
Mike Orlock |
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A Trifle Trivial
By Mike Orlock
Thereâs a poem kicking inside me--
on that my doctors can agree,
but whether itâs 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.
âdisagree You with I must, I cannot more,â
disclaims kind doctor Cummings, two eâs before.
âJust look you if you where syntax is swollen!
Like nobody he suffers from a punctuated colon:â
âSure if that were true,â opines flame haired Dr. Yeats,
âhis 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.â
âThereâs Yankee truth in what you say,â says flinty Dr. Frost.
âThe road heâs traveled is well worn, but at what personal cost?
Consider this, my good friend, the best heâll someday be
is already slouching toward mediocrity.â
âO, but what a stuffy song sung by such learned men,â
spits the wild-eyed and fulminating Dr. Whitman.
âWhat 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.â
All eyes turned to Dr. Eliot, and his eyes fixed on me
and pinned me to the table with inscrutability.
âThe prudent course of action is the one that I propose,â
he nods. âLetâs etherize this S.O.B. and cut his poem to prose.â
âTime to move or be moved,â Dr. Pound, in haste, he states.
âBut you better grab a bedpan! Heâs ready to create!â
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--Submitted by mjorlock on 2011-05-19.
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