I joined a poet’s workshop—learned a lot
In just six weeks. Had no idea poets
Are a major industry! Mad zealots
Pay to publish thin chapbooks; besotted
Scribblers, gathered to rehearse grim gavottes,
Trade intelligence of open mikes, strut
Their stuff at coffee houses, bars, uncut
Glut, spewing slam—embarrassed? Not a jot!
I learned that workshops float upon a lake
Of mild civility. The strict rules make
It so. The poets at the podium
Must not respond, must, mute, endure and quake,
While colleagues mildly praise, then, coolly, break
Their anxious hearts—damn them! Nit-picking scum!
II
My rant is not entirely fair—some folks
Work hard. And some few notes prove, sometimes, just.
But underneath, a certain inside joke—
A humming vibe evokes a firm distrust,
Fierce discontent—and treats as antique dust
The formal requisites of poetry.
“The man writes sonnets for chrissakes”—mild gusts,
Stifled giggles (perceptible to me).
And yet, these writers do have rules—foremost:
Poems must not be poetic! Like sybils’
Riddles, the lines they cherish and extol
Are awesomely incomprehensible!
Alas, rhyming stuff generates cold sneers—
They find my work (contemptibly!) too clear.
(8/1/07)