It was 1989 or 1990. I don't really remember which, but it was a college year and a creative writing class that spawned this one. The class was given several lists of words. We were charged to pick a list and use as many words as possible in a piece of work, a short poem or prose. And, as was my usual method, I waited until the last minute to write it. Reading it again, I felt a little wistful for those college days. My faux-beatnik phase, smoking clove cigarettes and hanging out with fine arts majors between classes. It was a productive but short-lived period, influenced by my studies with the poet Quinton Duval. He was a wonderful mentor and teacher, and I am grateful for his passion to teach and share. I had forgotten the influence he had on my search for a style, as I looked through the old notebooks and read his comments and critiques of my work. I may not have found it yet, but his exercises are a welcome reminder of how I can keep looking, to breathe life into the words.
In the Heat of Mockery
Do you remember your coffee house apparel
During the Summer of the Sunstroke?
The coat was long and dark and brooding,
Your sweater thick with wool
And perspiration steamed your obsidian glasses.
All too stifling, don’t you think?
Why were you there anyway?
I found you sipping black coffee.
The beans were always roasted too long for me.
Paltry pantry I have at home, you said -
But I remember now, you had your poetry -
Paltry poetry you had at the coffee house, I say.
What were those pitiful, prickly lines?
“I sat in the sun
plucking blue berries
from the mulberry bush.
But are mulberries really blue?”
And that other dried-up work you recited?
“Swarm to school,
lifeboat to the younger days.
But do not forget:
before you leave
center the pot on the stove
bought with moss-colored money.”
That was a stuffy piece.
I felt all stopped up in a dirty glass bottle,
Floating all day following the sun over the horizon.
I’m glad I left the coffee house early that day
So I would not hurt you feelings.
I’m sorry, but your poems are so ludicrous
I can’t help but laugh until I’m red in the face,
During the Summer of the Sunstroke?
The coat was long and dark and brooding,
Your sweater thick with wool
And perspiration steamed your obsidian glasses.
All too stifling, don’t you think?
Why were you there anyway?
I found you sipping black coffee.
The beans were always roasted too long for me.
Paltry pantry I have at home, you said -
But I remember now, you had your poetry -
Paltry poetry you had at the coffee house, I say.
What were those pitiful, prickly lines?
“I sat in the sun
plucking blue berries
from the mulberry bush.
But are mulberries really blue?”
And that other dried-up work you recited?
“Swarm to school,
lifeboat to the younger days.
But do not forget:
before you leave
center the pot on the stove
bought with moss-colored money.”
That was a stuffy piece.
I felt all stopped up in a dirty glass bottle,
Floating all day following the sun over the horizon.
I’m glad I left the coffee house early that day
So I would not hurt you feelings.
I’m sorry, but your poems are so ludicrous
I can’t help but laugh until I’m red in the face,
Redder than a boiled lobster.
Hey, now that’s poetry!
Hey, now that’s poetry!
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