To Helen

Yes we do title our titles after the spit

            of greater poets than we could

            ever hope to be.

It’s an affliction, is what it is, born

            too much of reading too much

            and wondering why

The errant colon is not more often

            employed:  such as:  “13

            Ways:  of Looking at a:

Blackbird.”  Or, “Donald Duck:

            in Hollywood.”  Or, “Variations

            on a Theme:  by William

Carlos Williams.”  You get the idea.

            Or, maybe you don’t.  Say you’re

            at a reading, one of the

Obnoxious ones, where the prattling

            poets are so porously serious

            (when not seriously porous)

As they share their epic retelling

            of the story of their creation

            in terza rima, no less,

Fashioned after the Inferno but

            lacking a guide or much

            in the way of a Lucifer,

When this poem, prattling also

            we’re sure in many’s estimation,

            is read but the reading poet

Neglects to demarcate the colon

            in any fashion.  “The Famous

            Boating:  Party” becomes

Simply “The Famous Boating Party”

            which many of the poor

            chair-bound coffee-addicts

Trapped in the lachrymose allure

            of the reader’s reed-

            thin, helium-filled

Voice are too young to have read

            not in translation from

            Patchenese to English

Much less in its original spleen-

            rending rant/paean

         (the virgule there another

Demarcation you will miss) and

            so the sort-of literary

            faux joke is lost on

You.  And it’s not your fault if,

            after noting that reading

            poets should wear sensible

Shoes to avoid shuffling their

            reading feet to a rhythm

            the crowd, all both

Of them, never hear, you snooze

            during the section the poet

            has hubristically impaled

With the subtitle ‘Subpoena

            the Penis,’ which goes in

            to far too much detail

Regarding the conception practices

            of the trailer-bound lonely

            and the ensuing inquisition

Raised over the actual identity,

            as it were, per se, if you

            will, of the sperm’s pro-

Genitor.  Heck, everyone (both

            of you) snoozes every week

            during this variously twenty-

Seven, twenty-three and thirty

            minute long section, de-

            pending on what edits

Have been consecrated during

            The Weekly Re-write.  The

            poet explains, each week,

That this one has potential,

            that she really wants to get

            this one right, just

This once and that your thoughtful comments

            (you’ve both never uttered

            a word) have been very

Ignored.  Ha ha, she says.  But appreciated all

            the same, she says.  The attentive reader

            maybe listener here

Is rewarded for catching the shift

            in the reading poet’s

            nominative pronoun, no

Longer a their or a them, now

            a she and least

            you think this poet is

Thinking of maybe a particular

            female reading poet of the

            female being persuasion

Let this poet here assure you

            (instead of or as opposed to

            assure you here)

That, no, this poet is not thinking

            of Ellen, or Susan,

            or Mary, or May

Or especially Helen, despite

            the title of this poem which is, as

            was mentioned, cripped

From a stronger, longer, also

            ultimately forgotten poem

            by a stronger, longer

Also ultimately forgotten poet,

            not Homer but more recent.

            Names are so unimportant

At this stage.  The poet could list

            so many things of more

            import:  the hum of cicadas,

For instance, or fully connected

            rail tracks, or properly

            buckled seat belts, or

Even the structure of the wings

            of a hummingbird in flight.

            Also the rollicking tumble,

Also not previously mentioned, at

            world peace:  more

            important than any

Individual name or bush.  The poet

            mentions this now as a stab

            at later anthologizing –

Oh look, an editor will say,

            a clever poem about Helen,

            colons and peace,

And but look, some other editor

            of the future might rejoin,

            the poet coupled

The language of violence – stab!

            impale! consecrate! – with

            a plea for peace,

And then this editorial consortium

            can hammer each other

            bloody over authorial

Intent.  Shun poetry readings

            of poets in Prada mules,

            this poet insists and

Recognize that even the best

            decaffeinated beverage

            has a trace

Of what it supposedly leaves

            out.  Everything does

            in an additive by

Subtracted world.  This poem

            does:  all references

            to the original subject

Have been painstakingly removed.  This

            poet does:  a bone

            for every line, a vein

For every word.  And sweet,

            sweet Helen (not her real

            name, of course), in

Her pumps and drawls and the

            languid intonation when she

            said ‘colon’ or ‘please,’

Certainly probably thought she

            did.  As she was, hid

            in her pinings and veils,

Punctuated, as she was, with

            the green of her larcenous eyes,

            the blue of the water

On her knees.  The poor reader,

            at her castle, wails for Paris

            or Madrid, or a non-smoking

Venue.  How fleeting are the seats

            and the thighs of the unparsed

            ear, attuned to a slip

In the tone or a slide

            of the mule as the toe

            adjusts to its trauma.

The reading poet closes her pink

            journal, is met with an “Acck”

            and a hack and a silent

Podium, where all traces

            of beauty and vainglory

            are left behind

As on a toilet.  Only the unattended

            boating party, afloat

            in the what is not

Said, splits the infinitive

            to haunt and linger,

            a brace on which to shore.

© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved