This is not a poem
This is not a poem. It doesn’t
put in or out with that gnashing of teeth
in the outer darkness, though such darkness
has at times come troubling, once in the shape
of the pages of a long and tedious book
taped round the midriff of a Phys Ed teacher.
This not-poem much prefers resting on a pillow
while the radio plays, hours without end,
so it’s all one programme, really,
and announcers melt onto panel shows,
afternoon dramas of breathy intent.
Sometimes this not-poem tires of being called
this not-poem. Once it opted for Beauregard
and spent the best part of a week
with the scent of mint julep up its nose
and the overweening urge to suborn the Carolinas.
Retreating, it tried Sid, but then it was lumbered
with a muffler it couldn’t properly bulk
on a street full of sludge and ends not met.
How about Rogan? The name of a kid
it often saw from its window, a school tagalong
trying and failing to get in with a crowd
who would go on to administer districts
vague as Andromeda, make killings in virgin currencies,
unhook the wives of other men like it was Black Friday
and they swung on a rail in Marks. No.
It feared the worst and left Rogan to it –
wishing him well, though, hoping he’d see the light.
Sometimes it’s just n-p, as in no pagination,
neige et pluie. Nul points.
This non-poem has tried images, but it came over
all distended…felt like its head was pressed hard
against a barrier bar in a downpour. Best left.
Now and then it hopes for a morning of snow and rain
and snow, when it can simply stare at the sky commoting,
catch a great tit risking flight between berries and young,
boil the kettle and give thanks that the coffee
won’t pester it to harp on depth or restoratives
or whatever is un-opalescent. It doesn’t have the chops
to mess with that stuff, and is happy so. The kitchen door
doesn’t open on a road to a land of losts or founds…
just something that, as far as light and space go,
simply agrees and disagrees by turn. It’s heard enough
about what happens to poems. They become a child
by a park gate at closing when all its money’s been pinched.
And simply for trying to speak the wind. Best left.
