mmmdcclxxiii

Blabbermouth

I can’t keep from thinking that
poetry is a bit ridiculous at times.
And, to be glaringly honest, quite
often, bearing in mind that my
perspective is a bit skewed by
insisting on reading a substantial
amount of unsolicited poetry sub
missions for a fledgling magazine
for several years, at least until
it wasn’t so fledgling, when I
at some point decided that the
odds are that, when in receipt
of a manuscript-sized volley
of a cacophony of words
splayed upon virtual page
after virtual page, odds were
I could make a fairly quick
decision after reading five
or six pages regarding
whether or not I wanted
to read the rest of the
sheaf, much less include any
of it in an issue. And that further
more, the chances would be better
for me were I to to keep my eyesight
for a bit longer, if so, and there
would even be a potentially
significant chance of living
a fuller, more varied and
longer life by opting
out of reading a few more
of those virtual pages once
in a while. Who’s to say,
really, except me? Indic
ative of nothing at all,
really, I did wake up one
morning a year ago January,
in the middle of my first
bout with Covid, unable
to make out the words on
a page of even an old-
fashioned hardcopy book.
This is not a problem that

I had ever had before,

nor one that has since
has gone away (perhaps
more on that later, but
I will take the liberty to
advise that when you
have an optometrist
prescribe for you your
very first pair of ‘progressive’
eyeglasses, they should not only
come with an instruction manual
but also with an attention-grabbing
warning from the doctor before
you walk away from that
appointment letting you
know that these are not
last year’s prescription
for a wee bit of nearsight
edness.) (But that is another
story, altogether.  So you
got two for the price of one,
or, hello, I’m the person whose
fingers are punching away at the
sticky keys of my laptop to put
this thing together, and what an
honor that thanks to you it has
not gone into perpetuity for
nothing but to tickle my
whimsy.) The fun thing
about writing a poem is
that it can be anything
I want it to be. And yes,
for me, the very idea of
this ridiculous whimsy
of which I partake day
in and day out is in
the hope that you
might come along
and have a look.
And my further
hope is that if
you do have that
look that you go
further, that you
scrutinize it. Would
this be a poem if
I didn’t call it one?
Well, that’s for you
to decide. Because
once I type this final
line, it’s no longer mine,
right? That is what they
say, I believe. And I tend
to agree, in principal. But,
hang on, I am getting ahead
of myself, or meandering
(two things that are NOT
okay to do when you are
being interviewed for a job,
I feel compelled to add).
Let me attempt to come
to some sort of conclusion,
or at least finish my opening
thought, after which you can
call this  doozie whatever
you want (literally, by
now, it’ll puff with pride
no matter how objectionable
a name you give it, should
you, indeed, get here; should
you so choose to name it—
and not calling it a thing
makes it no more or less
of one, of course, so long
as you are here. But, as
I was saying...).... I don’t
even mind pushing my
words, the words I call
poems, or whatever, as
far into what I would
consider ridiculous as
possible. It can be fun.
It can lead to some fairly
interesting pieces and
the very act of creating
them can lead to some
fantastic and fantastical
and often quite enlight
ening perspective, at 

least from my own view,

which I sometimes, on occasion,
rather enjoy rereading, and
this I do, just as I reread
my favorite books, often
the ones that inspired me
in the direction of this
whimsy in the first
place. Often, and truth
be told more often than
not, and by a longshot,
that means my favorite
books are of poetry, of
poems, are written by
folks who, more often
than not, would call
themselves poet
or artist (which
brings me closer
to my point, as if
that matters). So,
I believe that, as
whatever as poetry
can often be, if
I utilize all the
logic I can muster,
I’d say as far as art
forms go, poetry must
rank fairly high (note
to reader: there is no
such thing as a better
art form, nor even,
necessarily, a better
work of art, so this
is said strictly for
the sake of engage
ment, which is most often

my point), which
is a significant part
of all of this, to be
sure. If art exists,
if this is a poem,
if those poems
that exist in books
that are labeled books
of poetry exist, then I’d
say that among the various
supposed art forms out there,
poetry must be an equally
significant one. Now how
would I go about proving
that? I have a barebones
approach. But why bother,
when what we call an art
form or genre and how
these things get ranked in
some sort of best to worst
order is nonsense (this
cliffhanger is meant to
provoke, hint hint). If
I say that I read more
lousy poetry than great poetry,
I’m being 100% honest. But it’s just
an opinion. Getting at what’s good,
figuring out what to call it and how
to differentiate it from something else,
those are privileges that mean nothing.
But a work of art can be ranked, I do most
earnestly believe, in order significance, individually

and in congregate. I mean, that is mere logic,
it’d be quite impossible to do, but somewhere
out there is an ideal rank of the most significant
poems ever from start to finish, based on the
effect each had on the reader or listener, and
how each reader or listener manifested whatever
effect the poem had on them, etc., that’s logical, right?
Figure out your own ways into and out of art. I’m
calling it art, though. I differentiate it from
everything else, no matter how it can be found
in that everything else. In the end, if it matters,
(and does it not?  Well, nobody can say for
sure, and yet everyone can say, and most with
some confidence—a fine conundrum, is it not?—
after all, what is mattering?). And it’s what I
make. It’s a pleasure to do, this making. But
I don’t do it simply for the pleasure of just
making it. I write these words to be taken.
What happens from there is the important
stuff. To me. Or.  Well.  Also, can a work of 

art, can a poem, save a life? Absolutely.
Even if nobody can say with certainty.
This fact cannot be argued. Or debated.
In such a way that a precise conclusion
can be verified.  Or could it?  Hmph,

if you don’t believe me and want 

to see for yourself and if you are 

game to use me as your partner 

in such a debate, it’s not that 

difficult to find me, and I’m
always open and willing to try.
Which just goes to show that
the truthiest nut that can often
be found in poetry is its ruse. 

That true.  Isn’t it? Even if there
were only one way to find out,
I trust that you could find it.
You do that, while I find my 

way out of this trap. Post haste!