4 responses

  1. I was transferring this to my fragment file and gave it another shot. Redeemable? Thanks.

    Her Majesty

    I had a choice to be prolific
    A life of living in my thoughts
    Versus hearing people talk
    And training tact in my response.
    Redneck with a cosmo brain:
    Too much risk I’d temporize
    If daily, daily death’s your song
    A chancy hole to dig I’d say
    The expectation of a cult
    To muse yourself to early grave
    Into a hole and no way out
    Into the ranks of Keats and Plath
    So why not mix it up a bit,
    Add some practicality, bullshit
    At the corner store, work two
    Jobs to pay the rent, take
    Opie on a fishing trip. Is not
    One poem sufficient bow
    To honor death Her Majesty?
    I wrote her one, she asked for
    Ten, I wrote her ten she asked
    For years. Opie called,
    “The trout are in!”
    “So?” I said, my tone aloof,
    “Her Majesty has other plans.”
    “Then,” said Opie, in a huff,
    “Tell that bitch to kiss your ass.”
    “Anyway, Opie, you should know
    There’s always Barney, Goober, Floyd…”
    “All dead!”
    “Opie. Opie. Pardon me.
    Her Majesty is at the door.
    Sorry.”

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    • There’s a discursive surrealism to this that appeals to me. This poem (of all that I’ve read by you) is the most successful in the way your iconoclasm and irreverence (verging on rebellious rage) doesn’t seem out of place — not because it shouldn’t be there but because it often feels like there’s a war between that and a more traditional voice (like you’d prefer writing the latter but the ADD in you never lets you finish). Your proposed second ending is awful—a finger in the eye of Frost, okay, but why? Stay focused on what you’ve already done.

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  2. Thanks. I modified the ending as follows:

    I wrote her one she asked for
    Ten, I wrote her ten she asked for
    Life. Opie called, “The trout are in!”
    “Oh.” I said, my tone aloof,
    “Her Majesty has other plans.”
    “Then,” said Opie, in a huff,
    “Tell that bitch to kiss your ass.”
    “Anyway, Opie, you should know
    There’s always Barney, Goober, Floyd…”
    “All dead!”
    “Opie. Opie. Pardon me.
    Her Majesty is at the door.
    Her Majesty has other plans.”

    This is #72 on my site. As for the ADD I typically hold an argument together well when blogging. And I can evaluate arguments. But it is beyond me to write about poetry at length as you do. So you may want to modify your diagnosis to Acute Selective ADD secondary to a concomitant diagnosis of chronic LDD (Literary Defiant Disorder) with schizotypal tendencies exacerbated by Caffeine addiction and two Bud Lites. A thorough screening for sexual paraphilias may also be indicated as soon as the technician can find a Penile plethysmograph big enough to handle it.

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