Blogging, Scientists, and Poetry

Okay, my buddies got me into writing this blog and so now here I sit writing this damn thing and not writing poetry. Sort of makes me wonder if they planned it that way. Hell, if they didn’t like my poetry they could have just told me so. They didn’t have to trick me, you know. But what’s done is done and the earth spins, or so I’m told. I ain’t too certain the earth really spins because otherwise I figure we’d all be dizzy. Those science types will tell us anything and we say, “Oh!” We are just like little kids. We’ll believe anything scientists tell us. Back in the ‘70s an ice age was coming…”Oh!” Now it’s gonna get hot…”Oh!” Cold, hot, me, I’m holding out for when they tell us it’s going to not get above the low 70s for daytime highs and maybe in the 40s for lows in the winter. You see how this blog thing works? I mention something about poetry and zip…here comes a weather report.

There is a reason poetry is spelt the way it is…and no, it has nothing to do with any Latin or Guatemalan or whatever roots. Poetry begins with “po” because that’s what you are going to be if you rely on poetry as your financial support. Now you see a scientist can come up with some half-baked idea that ain’t nothing more than a theory and get everyone to say “Oh!” You know what a theory is, right? It’s a maybe. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…a maybe, and we fall all over ourselves eating it up, reading everything we can about it, watching television programs about it, listening to anyone on talk radio talk all about it, and preaching it to our friends and to strangers we’re stuck in an elevator or on a bus or whatever with. But poetry…”Aw man, that’s some boring shit.” I mean poetry is that crap in the card you give on holidays like Valentine’s Day or birthdays to show how much that person means to you in hope of getting lucky. And the mushier the better…sort of like my French toast with butter, peanut butter, and real maple syrup…over indulgence over hill over dale over the river over the top and if the gods smile on you, in the pants. That’s the purpose of poetry…it’s expected on certain occasions to maintain a peaceful life…and maybe loosen a belt or two. “Oh!”

This summer I was covering poetry in my Comp II class (I never mention I’m a poet to my classes but they eventually figure it out) and most, like most, don’t care for poetry and we’re talking about the poets and one thing leads to another and most of the class agrees that male poets aren’t manly. I mean come on…since poetry deals with emotions and real men only know maybe two emotions…hate and anything to do with balls of any shape or size…then male poets can’t be anything other than sissies…”oh,” i say. And women don’t want sissies, they want manly men…”oh,” i say. So I keep my mouth shut about me being a poet for a few more weeks and I keep reminding them about open mic at the school and eventually someone asks me if I read there and I say yes and the class sniggers but I bring in some poetry that ain’t in their book and we read it and they say “OH!”…even the manly guys in class...and the women sort of half swoon even though the poem I read by Etheridge Knight had the word fuck about a dozen times in it and it is a powerful poem and it’s a love poem and the guys understand what Knight is saying and the women understand what Knight is saying and it’s beautiful and the guys and the women both can feel the beauty of the poem and all I can do is say thank you to Mr. Knight for opening my class up to emotions and movement and beauty and poetry.