Whether this fellow’s self-pity Is pious, self-righteous or both
There’s simply no help. Only that greed to consume
What’s pretty triggered his need To vomit his whelp. [But
In lieu of a URL or link From genius Tricia,
I offer instead this proof That Ed Ochester,
Ellen Voight, and whoever Is calling the shots at the tepid
U. of Iowa--could it still be That upwardly mobile
Harvard twot, Jorie Graham’s Ex?--are in the head soft.]
********************
ELEGY ON A TOY PIANO
You don't need a pony to connect you to the unseeable or an airplane to connect you to the sky.
Necessary it is to die if you are a living thing which you have no choice about.
Necessary it is to love to live and there are many manuals but in all important ways one is on one's own.
You need not cut off your hand. No need to eat a bouquet. Your head becomes a peach pit your tongue a honeycomb.
Necessary it is to live to love, to charge into the burning tower then charge back out and necessary it is to die.
Even for the grass, even for the pony connecting you to what can't be grasped.
The injured gazelle falls behind the herd. One last wild enjambment. Because of the sores in his mouth, the great poet struggles with a dumpling. His work has enlarged the world but the world is about to stop including him. He is the tower the world runs out of.
When something becomes ash, there's nothing you can do to turn it back. About this, even diamonds do not lie.
Oh, I don't know. "He is the tower the world runs out of" is a pretty good line. Though I'll admit that I generally enjoy individual lines of his work more than I enjoy entire poems.
We invented skinning the scalp, Named mountains and athletic teams For the sliced bald and bleeding Indigenes we shamed in life and death, Then slapped on the wall of a bank A Picasso beside a Van Gogh, Crying with mute, exultant pride, “How’s that for your unincorporated Creation of wealth, commie beatnik One-eared red-beard!” Cousins Still in Britain, where ancients
Kicked without touching The heads of conquered adversaries Over fields of frozen green, crowd Football matches mainly to riot, Smother and vomit: the plan Is to cover the planet with swill The mob calls fun, innocent As urgent water-boarding, safe Therefore pristine, proclaiming “We the impervious just don't care If our hands are dirty or clean!”
* * *
(On the theme of young Dean's Teflon, tiptoe through the tulips, Ballyhoed irreverence, a surrealist Being one for whom the boring Is interesting because the interesting Is for them so boring; I.e., the delicate onion And labyrinth of gynecology.)
Nothing teflon About thee, cherie, Who we decry Clumping through The tulips, hot As a Scotch Bonnet, N'est-ce pas? Your young Dean, However, is a dreary Epicine, and if I May make so bold, Don't let your Hostess Tea run cold, or ever Get grouchy and old As curmudgeonly me.
Epicene? Really? Indeed, what a neutersexual Dean Young must be, to write poems you don't like! If only he wrote more poems comparing vaginas to peat bogs, we would know more truly his intentions and his worth. Unacceptable; you are PUNISHED.
8 comments:
LESS AND LESS HUMAN, O SAVAGE HEART
Whether this fellow’s self-pity
Is pious, self-righteous or both
There’s simply no help.
Only that greed to consume
What’s pretty triggered his need
To vomit his whelp. [But
In lieu of a URL or link
From genius Tricia,
I offer instead this proof
That Ed Ochester,
Ellen Voight, and whoever
Is calling the shots at the tepid
U. of Iowa--could it still be
That upwardly mobile
Harvard twot, Jorie Graham’s
Ex?--are in the head soft.]
********************
ELEGY ON A TOY PIANO
You don't need a pony
to connect you to the unseeable
or an airplane to connect you to the sky.
Necessary it is to die
if you are a living thing
which you have no choice about.
Necessary it is to love to live
and there are many manuals
but in all important ways
one is on one's own.
You need not cut off your hand.
No need to eat a bouquet.
Your head becomes a peach pit
your tongue a honeycomb.
Necessary it is to live to love,
to charge into the burning tower
then charge back out
and necessary it is to die.
Even for the grass, even for the pony
connecting you to what can't be grasped.
The injured gazelle falls behind the
herd. One last wild enjambment.
Because of the sores in his mouth,
the great poet struggles with a dumpling.
His work has enlarged the world
but the world is about to stop including him.
He is the tower the world runs out of.
When something becomes ash,
there's nothing you can do to turn it back.
About this, even diamonds do not lie.
Dean Young
Oh, I don't know. "He is the tower the world runs out of" is a pretty good line. Though I'll admit that I generally enjoy individual lines of his work more than I enjoy entire poems.
you art is becoming genius, like you. i'm not a bit surprised.
xo
WOLF NATION
We invented skinning the scalp,
Named mountains and athletic teams
For the sliced bald and bleeding
Indigenes we shamed in life and death,
Then slapped on the wall of a bank
A Picasso beside a Van Gogh,
Crying with mute, exultant pride,
“How’s that for your unincorporated
Creation of wealth, commie beatnik
One-eared red-beard!” Cousins
Still in Britain, where ancients
Kicked without touching
The heads of conquered adversaries
Over fields of frozen green, crowd
Football matches mainly to riot,
Smother and vomit: the plan
Is to cover the planet with swill
The mob calls fun, innocent
As urgent water-boarding, safe
Therefore pristine, proclaiming
“We the impervious just don't care
If our hands are dirty or clean!”
* * *
(On the theme of young Dean's
Teflon, tiptoe through the tulips,
Ballyhoed irreverence, a surrealist
Being one for whom the boring
Is interesting because the interesting
Is for them so boring;
I.e., the delicate onion
And labyrinth of gynecology.)
Rebecca! That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to a person who has no idea what anything in the world looks like.
a surrealist
Being one for whom the boring
Is interesting because the interesting
Is for them so boring
ZING! Yet how you can decry surrealism in the same comments box as you honor my glowing doe-vom escapes my comprehension, truly.
THE VIEW FROM BELOW
Nothing teflon
About thee, cherie,
Who we decry
Clumping through
The tulips, hot
As a Scotch Bonnet,
N'est-ce pas?
Your young Dean,
However, is a dreary
Epicine, and if I
May make so bold,
Don't let your Hostess
Tea run cold, or ever
Get grouchy and old
As curmudgeonly me.
Epicene? Really? Indeed, what a neutersexual Dean Young must be, to write poems you don't like! If only he wrote more poems comparing vaginas to peat bogs, we would know more truly his intentions and his worth. Unacceptable; you are PUNISHED.
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