Re our earlier discussion of the reliability of sensible vs. ideational objects. Rare cold weather poem. Slightly amused me in spite of my chilblains. You?
A Tree Falls in the Forest
Sally said, “Well, I’m really not into firewood epistemology
But if you insist: That tree is true when I see it
In my Brain.”
Dick said, “No, that tree is true when I chop it
With my ax.”
Sally said, “Then do I exist when you chop a tree
Or only when you’re in bed with me?”
Dick said, “My point exactly—YOU exist
Like nothing else.”
Sally said, “You asshole.”
The interesting thing about your poems is that so many of them end with a literal or figurative expletive—with a kind of scatology of thought. It’s like you have a seemingly allergic reaction to anything elevated and immediately want to wreck and undermine it. My memory is far from perfect, but I think that pattern holds in every poem you’ve posted here, but one. This poem follows that same pattern. It’s like a diffident humor.
Yes. A little tic I have. Maybe in future poems I can address that. But say I did write 100 of the most organically eloquent poems in the English language. It would only incite future biographers to make me all too human and to speculate on the haggard masturbator behind them. I save them the trouble.
I think Maya Angelou has already cornered the market for autobiography. And probably poetry too. Speaking of which, for all my poems’ faults have you seen one yet that excels “Phenomenal Woman”?
Yes, but you have a wry and self-deprecating sense of humor that always makes me laugh. I can’t say that Maya Angelou has ever made me laugh. About anything. But then maybe I haven’t read enough of her work. In answer to your question: Not yet. If I think you have, though, I’ll let you know. :)
340: December 6th 2019 | bottlecap
PoemShape 
Re our earlier discussion of the reliability of sensible vs. ideational objects. Rare cold weather poem. Slightly amused me in spite of my chilblains. You?
A Tree Falls in the Forest
Sally said, “Well, I’m really not into firewood epistemology
But if you insist: That tree is true when I see it
In my Brain.”
Dick said, “No, that tree is true when I chop it
With my ax.”
Sally said, “Then do I exist when you chop a tree
Or only when you’re in bed with me?”
Dick said, “My point exactly—YOU exist
Like nothing else.”
Sally said, “You asshole.”
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The interesting thing about your poems is that so many of them end with a literal or figurative expletive—with a kind of scatology of thought. It’s like you have a seemingly allergic reaction to anything elevated and immediately want to wreck and undermine it. My memory is far from perfect, but I think that pattern holds in every poem you’ve posted here, but one. This poem follows that same pattern. It’s like a diffident humor.
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alternate last line:
Sally said, “When you’re around. Asshole.”
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Yes. A little tic I have. Maybe in future poems I can address that. But say I did write 100 of the most organically eloquent poems in the English language. It would only incite future biographers to make me all too human and to speculate on the haggard masturbator behind them. I save them the trouble.
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You should be writing your autobiography,
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I think Maya Angelou has already cornered the market for autobiography. And probably poetry too. Speaking of which, for all my poems’ faults have you seen one yet that excels “Phenomenal Woman”?
LikeLike
Yes, but you have a wry and self-deprecating sense of humor that always makes me laugh. I can’t say that Maya Angelou has ever made me laugh. About anything. But then maybe I haven’t read enough of her work. In answer to your question: Not yet. If I think you have, though, I’ll let you know. :)
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