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The Happy Poem
by Michael Blumenthal
This is a poem against false piety and sadness.
It is a poem against the stupid equation of grief
and holiness, a poem that dares to laugh
at the wilted tulip and the burnt hyacinth.
This is a poem against the wide tie and the narrow tie,
a poem that refuses to turn into another elegy
for Crane or for Berryman or for Sexton or Plath.
This is the poem that was not at the Holocaust.
It is the poem of the happy Jew, against atonement
and low stools, against kosherness and the circumcised penis.
This is the poem that snuck into the Seder
to drink from Elijah's miserable wineglass.
This is a poem against false protestations of love
and avowals of grief, against false sincerity.
It is a poem for Simone de Beauvoir.
This is a poem against the uncirculating gift,
against the inactive sperm and the undropped egg.
It is a poem against blankets.
This is the poem that will love you madly for a night
or a weekend, but will never marry you.
And you will never forget it.
Most of all, this is a poem against self-imposed suffering.
It is a poem against all my own poems that fail to begin
with lines like: For seven years, I have been here,
loving your teeth.
This is my poem. And it is your poem.
And it is not sorry about anything...
Not even this.