Why Poetry? Nobody Cares.

That's my tortured poet face. See? 

As  per usual with me, it's mostly hair—and blur—but mostly hair.

How odd to settle into the writer thing. It is terribly unglamorous. And a literary writer at that. Nobody gives a rip what you do and can’t really understand why you do it. I remember my poet and professor, Kate Daniels, at Vanderbilt and her first question on the first day of the advanced poetry class. She said, “Why write poetry? Nobody cares.” And she is absolutely right. Absolutely. Nobody cares, but then, if it’s in you—if it’s really in you—then what else can you do? There is nothing else and the fact that nobody cares is something we all just have to grow up about and live with.

Even other poets don’t really care, often too concerned with their own work to pay attention to yours beyond what they can learn (read pillage) from your craft. It’s predatory, really, but this is the weird little world in which we bury ourselves.

This isn’t to say poetry isn’t important. We are exposers of epiphany—truth and vision. Also, historically, poets have been responsible for keeping and, when necessary, rehabilitating the language, but the credit often passes to novelists and journalists and orators. Ah, well—lament, lament, lament. Maybe all this “nobody cares” business is part of the fun of poetry. We do love having things to sorely lament and tear our hair out over and swoon on our swooning couches about and loudly bitch with other poets concerning.

More than the poetry itself, that’s probably why nobody likes us—gorgeous, important, language-keeping, epiphany exposing, short-attention-span-having, precocious, pretentious assholes that we are.

How I love us all.

-M.

The "Push Me" Love

We were meant to dance,
     I think.
This is how the Push me, 
Push me, love rounds
into something like sway
with the long ache and,
Hold me up.
     Hold me up.

-M.

Contextomy LXXVI (haiku)

Sixteen, seven, thir-
teen is not a haiku, ba-
by. Good effort though.

-M.

Contextomy LXXVIII

collaboration with A.M.

Calm down.
You don't understand.
What I said was, "Hooray
for lazy bitches."

-M.

What is poet? Am I?

So many young poets concerned with what it is to be a poet -- worrying it to death into some romantic, prophetic figure. I did it myself.

I wish I could convince them early to be still -- be still and pay attention and work -- always work. I also wish I could have convinced myself early -- or that, in the middle as I am now, I could convince myself to stay convinced.

-M.

Video Reading: Love Scenes for May to December

I've decided to start experimenting with video readings of my work so as to develop a presence on YouTube as well, (read: expand my evil empire). This is my first effort and, although there is certainly room for improvement, I'm rather proud of it and would love to get some feedback. 

Come on, you know you want to watch it. I even chose a love poem to start and, after all, who can resist the sultry, sultry voice?

-M.

view on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3YvwmCH7uqY

Love Scenes for May to December

Aged, olive-skinned hand
over the pale pink fingers
of wounded youth’s retreating--
squeeze, hold and release
in time with the stilling pulse
and luxuriant long exhales
of decades lost 
and two bodies ravaged 
near empty and unrecognizable.

Aching from a posture of almost 
cowed and kneeling, one knee 
comes to complacent rest 
against another
ruddy with war wounds
and unfaded scars.

Thigh to thigh is pressed--
a flesh-blurred line.

By clandestine peace inebriated
lips needy of the human want
wine-touched go mumbling
the soul’s soothing fictions fulfilled. 

The heat kicks on--lulling 
white noise and dry warmth 
of memory to drown out a chill 
blowing the curtains 
and bringing in birdsong. 

Some Clever Poet

I sit on the bed and finish up the bottle—
a wine called cleverly, “Mischief Maker.”
Some clever poet wrote that, I’m sure,
some clever poet who goes around like me
with no pants on complaining in the night
about the cold that isn’t really cold, yet
won’t do anything to correct it
like throw a blanket over
or put some damn pants on 
or close the window
or love
or write something meaningful
to stay warm with.

-M.