St. Vitus Day
for Chuck

He danced at my father’s funeral, his arms
asway from the buckled down shoulders hunching
and I sat beside him felt my muscles twinge
to the beat of that dance, the hallelujah
of hands not wild in the air. Some rhythms beg

you to dance, to stir in your chair, or just let your toe
bob along the ground like a sparrow.
Something tugs the middle of your limbs,
reels you out of the grieving water, gasping,
as that man flaps and claps and shuffles

a brain-bitten kumbayah. Oh he danced
and the rows before him swayed to his sway,
and the rows behind him swayed. And the priest
kept his shoulders rigid behind the altar,
his legs Riverdancing beneath the cassock.

He danced at my father’s funeral. I danced
at his, sashaying left, right, a Pip shining
in the reflection from his casket, his closed
casket, closed so no one could see him
boogie-oogie-oogie into the ground.

Hearing that should be head puffing. It should. Instead, I’m so humbled by it, as if I am truly part of poetry, instead of a bystander.

Apologies for my grumpiness. I obviously needed booze.

I’m tired of the woo woo notion that we are marionettes for the pleasure of some superhuman force.

Poetry is about craft, not channeling.

I know that in some of my readings, I’m missing the point of the poem, not at all capturing what the poet meant. So few discussions of poetry allow the poet just to say, “No, I really meant this, not that.”

So, if you’d be interested in playing along because you’re bored or interested, or if you want a recording of any of your poems, please let me know.

I’m finding the only way to learn poetry reading is to do poetry reading. I guess it’s always the way.

What are your thoughts on collaborating? Have you ever done it? Ever been interested? Would you want to collaborate only with poets who write very similar things in similar ways, or are you a formalist hoping to collaborate with a Language poet?

Gimme your thoughts, ’cause I need ‘em. I can’t seem to supply any of my own.

1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was:

I can’t remember any poems from my childhood. Some songs, like “It’s raining, it’s pouring,” but no poems. Poetry was foreign soil. Perhaps the “tiddly pom” rhyme from one of the Pooh Bear stories, “The more it snows, tiddly pom, the more it goes, tiddly pom, the more it goes, tiddly pom, on snowing.”

The first poem that struck me with an appreciable emotional impact was:

“High Flight,” strangely enough.

2. I was forced to memorize in school:

I never was. I did memorize “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” at one point, but that was for extra credit.

3. I read/don’t read poetry because:

I read it because I’m lonely. And when I get done reading, I’m still lonely. There’s a line about the definition of insanity being doing the same thing and expecting different results. I keep expecting different results.

Oh, on a more cheerful day I’d say I read it to learn about the world, to creep inside someone else’s skin. But I’m not feeling cheerful. I’m being grim.

4. A poem I’m likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is:

The answer changes all the time, and usually isn’t a “classic” in any sense.

5. I write/don’t write poetry, but:

I write poetry, but I wonder if I really respect it.

6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature.

Poetry is hard. Lately, it hasn’t felt worth it, but when I’m not feeling so bleak, it’s the sort of churning up from the mud that I enjoy. Still, a novel is always easier.

7. I find poetry:

I find it most in broken things.

8. The last time I heard poetry:

This morning. I did some recordings and had to listen to my own, strange voice trickling through the headphones.

9. I think poetry is like:

Weight loss. It takes so much dedication, and once you stop it all disappears.