Greed. by Diane Wakoski
i read this poem today out of one of my dad's books from the 70's. it struck just the right chord. its long, but worth it.
2. Of Accord & Principle
The whole story
comes in
many segments, I see,
from each mouth that tells it
to me,
as those tube-lipped goldfish
swimming mouth to mouth
in their aquarium,
the kissing fish,
we called them;
we, trying to decide what nourishment
they were deriving
nibbling at each other's pale gold lips
what words passed through the tissue and move the
water
exactly
as your breath would stir my hair.
What happened?
We have as hard a time telling
as if there were no words.
Each voice tells articulately
its own story.
Nowhere
do they come together;
the kissing lips of the fish
who, we plainly see,
do not know what
kissing is.
Was there one person who said a word
that was
forbidden?
It started last year with "fuck the president,"
words of political protest, quoted
from a newspaper article
and
then there were reports of
others,
who said words that were
forbidden
and there were those of us who were
talking to the young as if they
could understand, and as if they were older than they
were
and perhaps that is all that happened;
that what was
forbidden,
was to speak inappropriately to
children.
It all sounded
like the kissing fish,
the palest lips,
those who could say the least,
would did not know what kissing was about,
perhaps were giving the impression
as do those golden pale creatures, swimming in the
aquarium, that they were doing something, knowing,
loving,
a gesture of communication and
recognition
but then no one knew,
and it turned out that maybe we had all done something
forbidden.
The whole story is about poets who
read
or said
words
that were forbidden.
They said, "fuck the president,"
and in other cases
untraceable things.
They said what they had to say,
each one,
about the world
and they were saying it for money;
there was money to spread over the poets,
as fish food sprinkled
too abundantly
by an amateur
on the skin of the water
or
in some cases
the scum that forms
when there is no water animal
such as the snail
to keep the water clean;
but with the money came rules,
and certain words were forbidden,
and in many cases no one knew what was said that was
forbidden;
an old Italian lady complained.
She couldn't say what had been said
but it offended. She said,
"you or I might speak one way when we are home and in private
but we don't speak that way before children;
we might be vulgar or gross
but we keep our poetry beautiful,
we don't walk on the grass,
we keep it beautiful,"
and no one knew
no one could find out
but something was forbidden it was said
and it should not have been said.
It was greed on the part of the poets.
Wanting both accord and principle.
Wanting the felicity of $100 and still wanting to say what they
thought,
as if the world, or any government would pay
a man $100 for his integrity;
maybe, if he pleases, and he polishes,
he kisses enough pale gold mouths
in deep meaningless kisses
as those fish who swim so, lips touching,
not knowing anything about commitment or love,
the government of city or state
will pay someone $100
to say something
beautiful
and safe.
The greed is of a poet who wants to be paid for his words
even if they are forbidden.
That is no different from the policeman who takes a bribe and still
wants to be considered doing his job.
That is no different from a greed from that of a man who wants two
wives
or a woman who wants to eat cake twice a day and still be thin.
I cannot chroicle all the greed of
accord and principle,
but can tell you that in this case
there was
the greed of a woman who wanted everyone to like her;
who wanted to make rules and still have the anarchists
love her,
who wanted to pay the poets for quality and integrity
and then have them give it up, if it just meant
changing a word or two;
who wanted to make choices -- saying this man is
suitable,
this one is not, and
still have the man who was deemed not suitable
to think her fair and equitable;
who wanted to keep secrets and not be thought
deceitful;
there was
the greed of a young man who wanted to sleep with all
the women available;
who wanted to make his poems please everyone and at
the same time, to be thought unique, forceful,
a speaker of important words;
who wanted to make extra money other poets were
losing when they were controversial;
who wanted the attention from knowing the secrets
that were kept by others,
and telling those secrets;
there was
my greed,
after my spirit had been broken many times,
wanting money to make me believe my life, my poems
had some meaning;
there was
the greed of all poets,
wanting the luxury of a life dedicated to writing words,
as many as there are drops of water in a lake,
expressing himself and being paid for this
self-indulgence.
There can be no greater joy than making a poem or a story or a picture that tells about you, your thoughts, your life, your feelings. In this case Emerson was right. If there is any virtue in being an artist, that virtue is its own reward. Why then, expect the world to applaud you, to honor you, to pay you for your pleasure, your indulgence? But that is the greed of all of us, the poets, who want our play considered work; want to be respected and paid for saying what we think and feel. Such luxury.
The fish with the cupped and pale gold lips
swimming in the tank
gesture meaninglessly,
kissing constantly.
Poets appear
endorsing the validity of each other's feelings.
They decide
who
really
feels
and
who's
a fake. They
decide that one expresses his feelings
too easily,
or another
without enough ease,
but when there are lips of rich fat poet fish to kiss
or the lips of editor fish
or national book award fish
or whisper fish, who have the ears of editors, publishers, and
organizers of reading tours,
their lips grow paler and paler gold
from kissing so much and so frequetly
in the ferny aquarium.
But the one kiss they save
above all kisses
is for what they call
"integrity." They are all kissing and telling
who has
and who doesn't have
integrity.
and the ones who kiss the most,
talk the most about
integrity.
There is no one of us
who hasn't done this;
who isn't at some time or other
swimming in the aquarium
with all the kissing poet fish
forgetting how the artificial light
makes the gold of our
scaled bodies
glimmer;
the lips, our lips
touch
as if they are rings of neon fire;
forgetting our own greed
with indignant talk of others' integrity. There is no way
to be honest
and to be paid for it. There is no
way to keep your soul and sell it too.
(there's more but my hands are tired. the part i've typed is the most impacting to me anyhow. you get a cookie if you made it all they way down here without cheating.)
2. Of Accord & Principle
The whole story
comes in
many segments, I see,
from each mouth that tells it
to me,
as those tube-lipped goldfish
swimming mouth to mouth
in their aquarium,
the kissing fish,
we called them;
we, trying to decide what nourishment
they were deriving
nibbling at each other's pale gold lips
what words passed through the tissue and move the
water
exactly
as your breath would stir my hair.
What happened?
We have as hard a time telling
as if there were no words.
Each voice tells articulately
its own story.
Nowhere
do they come together;
the kissing lips of the fish
who, we plainly see,
do not know what
kissing is.
Was there one person who said a word
that was
forbidden?
It started last year with "fuck the president,"
words of political protest, quoted
from a newspaper article
and
then there were reports of
others,
who said words that were
forbidden
and there were those of us who were
talking to the young as if they
could understand, and as if they were older than they
were
and perhaps that is all that happened;
that what was
forbidden,
was to speak inappropriately to
children.
It all sounded
like the kissing fish,
the palest lips,
those who could say the least,
would did not know what kissing was about,
perhaps were giving the impression
as do those golden pale creatures, swimming in the
aquarium, that they were doing something, knowing,
loving,
a gesture of communication and
recognition
but then no one knew,
and it turned out that maybe we had all done something
forbidden.
The whole story is about poets who
read
or said
words
that were forbidden.
They said, "fuck the president,"
and in other cases
untraceable things.
They said what they had to say,
each one,
about the world
and they were saying it for money;
there was money to spread over the poets,
as fish food sprinkled
too abundantly
by an amateur
on the skin of the water
or
in some cases
the scum that forms
when there is no water animal
such as the snail
to keep the water clean;
but with the money came rules,
and certain words were forbidden,
and in many cases no one knew what was said that was
forbidden;
an old Italian lady complained.
She couldn't say what had been said
but it offended. She said,
"you or I might speak one way when we are home and in private
but we don't speak that way before children;
we might be vulgar or gross
but we keep our poetry beautiful,
we don't walk on the grass,
we keep it beautiful,"
and no one knew
no one could find out
but something was forbidden it was said
and it should not have been said.
It was greed on the part of the poets.
Wanting both accord and principle.
Wanting the felicity of $100 and still wanting to say what they
thought,
as if the world, or any government would pay
a man $100 for his integrity;
maybe, if he pleases, and he polishes,
he kisses enough pale gold mouths
in deep meaningless kisses
as those fish who swim so, lips touching,
not knowing anything about commitment or love,
the government of city or state
will pay someone $100
to say something
beautiful
and safe.
The greed is of a poet who wants to be paid for his words
even if they are forbidden.
That is no different from the policeman who takes a bribe and still
wants to be considered doing his job.
That is no different from a greed from that of a man who wants two
wives
or a woman who wants to eat cake twice a day and still be thin.
I cannot chroicle all the greed of
accord and principle,
but can tell you that in this case
there was
the greed of a woman who wanted everyone to like her;
who wanted to make rules and still have the anarchists
love her,
who wanted to pay the poets for quality and integrity
and then have them give it up, if it just meant
changing a word or two;
who wanted to make choices -- saying this man is
suitable,
this one is not, and
still have the man who was deemed not suitable
to think her fair and equitable;
who wanted to keep secrets and not be thought
deceitful;
there was
the greed of a young man who wanted to sleep with all
the women available;
who wanted to make his poems please everyone and at
the same time, to be thought unique, forceful,
a speaker of important words;
who wanted to make extra money other poets were
losing when they were controversial;
who wanted the attention from knowing the secrets
that were kept by others,
and telling those secrets;
there was
my greed,
after my spirit had been broken many times,
wanting money to make me believe my life, my poems
had some meaning;
there was
the greed of all poets,
wanting the luxury of a life dedicated to writing words,
as many as there are drops of water in a lake,
expressing himself and being paid for this
self-indulgence.
There can be no greater joy than making a poem or a story or a picture that tells about you, your thoughts, your life, your feelings. In this case Emerson was right. If there is any virtue in being an artist, that virtue is its own reward. Why then, expect the world to applaud you, to honor you, to pay you for your pleasure, your indulgence? But that is the greed of all of us, the poets, who want our play considered work; want to be respected and paid for saying what we think and feel. Such luxury.
The fish with the cupped and pale gold lips
swimming in the tank
gesture meaninglessly,
kissing constantly.
Poets appear
endorsing the validity of each other's feelings.
They decide
who
really
feels
and
who's
a fake. They
decide that one expresses his feelings
too easily,
or another
without enough ease,
but when there are lips of rich fat poet fish to kiss
or the lips of editor fish
or national book award fish
or whisper fish, who have the ears of editors, publishers, and
organizers of reading tours,
their lips grow paler and paler gold
from kissing so much and so frequetly
in the ferny aquarium.
But the one kiss they save
above all kisses
is for what they call
"integrity." They are all kissing and telling
who has
and who doesn't have
integrity.
and the ones who kiss the most,
talk the most about
integrity.
There is no one of us
who hasn't done this;
who isn't at some time or other
swimming in the aquarium
with all the kissing poet fish
forgetting how the artificial light
makes the gold of our
scaled bodies
glimmer;
the lips, our lips
touch
as if they are rings of neon fire;
forgetting our own greed
with indignant talk of others' integrity. There is no way
to be honest
and to be paid for it. There is no
way to keep your soul and sell it too.
(there's more but my hands are tired. the part i've typed is the most impacting to me anyhow. you get a cookie if you made it all they way down here without cheating.)