"My Poems" (Isaac Oliver)
I hate my poems.
I used to love them, back when they knew their place.
Poems are like dogs you walk in the park
to attract off-duty firemen who love them and in turn love you.
Not my poems.
My poems used to be shy, they used to stand in front of the
mirror
and complain about their bloated syntax and pimpled thematic
structure.
But now they leave the house in couplets I don’t remember
rhyming,
and when I ask where they’re going and with whom they’re going
out,
they say, “He’s not your style. He writes think pieces, political
pieces.”
Oh god, not think pieces, not political pieces.
My poems see a guy across crowded room,
start talking pretty saying things like “Your eyes are like moons,”
and before I know it, I’m left standing alone at a punch bowl.
I’ll grab a stanza’s arm and say, “Just let me have this one, please.”
“You snooze, you lose,” it responds, rolling its eyes.
“You think you’re so hot with your semicolons,” I shout after it,
“but I wrote you for a class assignment! You weren’t even
inspired by anything!”
My poems make better theatre dates than me.
They make jokes, they offer multilayered compliments,
they know someone in the chorus.
My poems spend money without thinking twice.
They hold hands with men on the subway no matter who’s
looking.
“How’d you get so fearless?” I ask a particularly savvy poem that
insists
on all lowercase letter and refuses every title but “untitled”.
“I don’t know. Are you jealous?” it replies,
its thumb making circles on the palm of a modern dancer/social
activist.
My poems are bitches.
So they’ve been to some festivals, that doesn’t mean they know me.
“You’re much less grateful than my earlier work, when I used to
title poems,” I snap.
“You mean the ones you wrote with Tori Amos playing in the
background
and without the sense of humour?” “untitled” retorts.
My poems also come knocking in the very early morning,
and I let them sleep on my couch, and they cry about cruel men
and betrayal and Karl Rove,
and I hold them and remember why I wrote them.
I’ve needed to be fearless, to not capitalize words,
to laugh, to spend money, and to leave something untitled.
I’ve needed them to be my spies,
to have their hearts broken and their spirits tattered,
and to come back to me for punctuation.
****************************************************
Funny, and nice comment on what poetry is.
I used to love them, back when they knew their place.
Poems are like dogs you walk in the park
to attract off-duty firemen who love them and in turn love you.
Not my poems.
My poems used to be shy, they used to stand in front of the
mirror
and complain about their bloated syntax and pimpled thematic
structure.
But now they leave the house in couplets I don’t remember
rhyming,
and when I ask where they’re going and with whom they’re going
out,
they say, “He’s not your style. He writes think pieces, political
pieces.”
Oh god, not think pieces, not political pieces.
My poems see a guy across crowded room,
start talking pretty saying things like “Your eyes are like moons,”
and before I know it, I’m left standing alone at a punch bowl.
I’ll grab a stanza’s arm and say, “Just let me have this one, please.”
“You snooze, you lose,” it responds, rolling its eyes.
“You think you’re so hot with your semicolons,” I shout after it,
“but I wrote you for a class assignment! You weren’t even
inspired by anything!”
My poems make better theatre dates than me.
They make jokes, they offer multilayered compliments,
they know someone in the chorus.
My poems spend money without thinking twice.
They hold hands with men on the subway no matter who’s
looking.
“How’d you get so fearless?” I ask a particularly savvy poem that
insists
on all lowercase letter and refuses every title but “untitled”.
“I don’t know. Are you jealous?” it replies,
its thumb making circles on the palm of a modern dancer/social
activist.
My poems are bitches.
So they’ve been to some festivals, that doesn’t mean they know me.
“You’re much less grateful than my earlier work, when I used to
title poems,” I snap.
“You mean the ones you wrote with Tori Amos playing in the
background
and without the sense of humour?” “untitled” retorts.
My poems also come knocking in the very early morning,
and I let them sleep on my couch, and they cry about cruel men
and betrayal and Karl Rove,
and I hold them and remember why I wrote them.
I’ve needed to be fearless, to not capitalize words,
to laugh, to spend money, and to leave something untitled.
I’ve needed them to be my spies,
to have their hearts broken and their spirits tattered,
and to come back to me for punctuation.
****************************************************
Funny, and nice comment on what poetry is.