BACKGROUND:
I sent my prose poem 'How to cook an old boot' to an English professor friend of mine.
In return, he rearranged my work to make some kind of academic point, which I am still trying to figure out.
His version went like this:
(These items cannot be purchased
a kettle of enraged water.
add a dollop of sour cream
Add the good wishes of
Happy New Year.
and a back scratcher from the
Autumn mopery.
and a set of ground up spats.
and stay there; you're of no further use here.)
But hey --
For a thicker sauce, rummage through
Summer folly.
Gently slide the boot into
Spring wattles.
in all the seasons until
New Pains Bring New Opportunities.
in order to
loosen the hobnails.
In Peru there is a charming tradition
it is mellowed and ripe:
it will then last for many years.
Just before serving,
Leftover boot can be hung
on the clothesline to dry out;
locally take the next flight to Belgium
Never serve boiled boot to friends
of letting the children walk around in
One that has marinated
online, so if you haven't got them
or current job.
or relatives that don't know your middle
Probably longer than your marriage
Start with an old boot.
the boot after it has been cooked
the boys down at the plant
to make a bouquet garni.
Welcome Wagon.
who complain about their allergies
Winter pips.
your laundry for a pair of dirty socks
name.
I responded with what I thought was a harmless ditty:
poets and their critics dance
round each other in a trance;
when the critic won't retreat,
the poet calls him 'obsolete.'
This elicited the following from him:
Alas. This proves that my more direct approach was needed, which you should already have. I honestly would like real conversation on the subject, not playful pretending.
I'm reading you as saying to me, "Back off, dummy! As a poet, I am beyond criticism." That may not be what you intend. But it's what it feels like to me.
To which I responded as follows:
as an educator you have to analyze literature -- that's your job (and your joy, I realize)
but as a writer I just want to write it and let other people enjoy it (or not -- that's their privelege.)
E.B. White wrote about the analysis of humor, saying it's like dissecting a live frog -- there may be some interesting things
discovered, but the end result is the poor frog dies. I don't claim to write anything that can be dignified as literature, but my feelings are
still the same -- leave my damn frog alone.
I also freely admit that I am both complimented by your continuing interest in my work, and at the same time feel threatened by your refusal to bow down before it as an acolyte and instead insist on using your finely honed academic and scholastic tools to examine it, deconstruct it, tinker with it, and, ultimately, show my work back to me as something less than magical.
If I can't feel my writing is magical and miraculous I don't want to bother with it anymore -- I suppose I must be bipolar, after all; for I have moments of great exultation when I feel like Handel when he was composing the Hallelujah Chorus (if that story is true) and then I have other moments when my work seems nothing but a shoddy raree show not fit for a two-bit carnival.
THere is no middle ground for me -- especially since I never get paid for any of it.
If I were being paid to produce poetry I think I could conceive of myself as a journeyman/artisan. And take feedback more reasonably.
I have grown accustomed to playing the role of literary mountebank and poseur == so when someone makes a sincere effort to discover gems among my dross it makes me uncomfortable and diffident. Not to mention cranky and stubborn. And, as the above so amply proves, prolix.
Ever thine, tt
So that's where matters stand as of today.
I realize that great editors can bring out the greatness in poets.
But is he a great editor, and am I a great poet?
On the first point, perhaps. One the second -- not on your tintype.
