When Wit Is Born
Whatever one might say about it,
one couldn’t accuse it of drear.
And that’s why they had sentinels posted
in the foxhole of its year.
No one guessed it would amount to more
than junk one receives in the post.
But how very fine the hostess who presided there!
How swell the host!
You can imagine how, in pondering it,
they almost split their sides.
“One arrives, only to find oneself trapped
in the hole in which it hides.”
Now that they know this, what’s more to be done
than clamor about the tap?
For they say, “When wit is born,
you must give its fanny a little slap.”
They make an evening of it
and assign roles for an impromptu skit.
It is documented in what follows.
This poem is its first small bit.
The Fist of the Punch-line’s Thug
Have you guessed, dear reader, that the preceding poem was about humor?
Not humor per se – rather, our discernment of it in its rumor,
and the technique, circumstance or happenstance via which it’s gathered –
“gathered” meaning “understood” and “skimmed” (in the sense that wit is lathered).
Do its sparks fly forth at the height of noon, or when the beacons are dimmed?
Does it bubble up when the tankard is half-way drained, or when it’s brimmed?
Is it stripped from the chaff, or is it found in the neighboring stubble?
And are these questions seriously intended? But there’s your trouble!
Your trouble, your task and challenge: to dodge the fist of the punch-line’s thug…
and how to fall with grace when he pulls out from under your feet this rug!
Adam and His Hoe
Jeez! So it begins like that, so quickly? Well, let me look about me.
A fox, a man and a woman, a tap. What’s more, a reader. Howdy!
“Knee how!” Or “you are well,” as the Chinese say, betokening “Hello”.
A favor: If the lines are too taut or too slack, will you tell me so?
We must maintain them, for in them our conceptual fish will be caught,
and they’ll convey to us all the things that must be learned and must be taught.
We’ll amuse ourselves on the shore and inspect the surf for what it brings.
You’d be wise to put these gloves on first, though – apparently, that one stings.
And our search will become genetic via the names that we’ll bestow.
Just for fun, I’ll hang up this little portrait of Adam and his hoe.
Hoe with an “E”
That’s “hoe” with an “e,” you idiot. I wasn’t referring to Eve.
Mind your words. I hold you responsible for all that rolls out your sleeve.
You’ll do well to keep in mind just who’s to play Christ and who apostle.
Forget about it for now, okay? I don’t wish to start out hostile.
Anyway, neither you nor I fashioned the opposite one from clay.
We don’t wish to let the others think they’re entering into a fray.
So we’ll monitor each other and make sure we’re reading the meters.
I hope you’ve brought along the balm that I recommended for skeeters.
But do inform me, have you felt anything strike at your itching palm?
Not five minutes have yet gone by, and already we’ve entered a calm.
Wanting a Theme
At the beginning of Don Juan, Byron writes about wanting a theme.
I find it very likely that he had just woken up from a dream.
He hoped not to forget the details, so he arose and grabbed a pen.
He had to move while still the dream was meandering around his ken.
But all that remained was the inspiration when he reached his table.
All that was left of the dream was not enough for even a fable.
But he had to write something, as he had thus interrupted his sleep.
In exchange for two hours of shuteye, at least he’d have something to keep.
He probably had no idea that he’d begun an epic poem –
a hostel for his wandering thoughts, a stage on which he’d let them roam.
How It Differs
In reading poetry, there is always implicit an act of faith.
The poet’s own doubt resides in the poem as its own internal wraith.
Perhaps this is true of prose as well, though I believe it’s far less true.
For the reader never doubts it’s prose. He doesn’t need to think it through.
He doesn’t need to think, that is, how it differs from recorded speech.
But in order to accomplish a poem, the poet traces a breach.
And the reader’s job is to recover it, to find out where it’s at.
Yet he must be careful not to rip it wide apart into a vat,
over which he clings to the cadence in desperation with his pick.
So he notes which passages admit of a foothold and which are slick.
From Rage to Rage
Not infrequently he acknowledges that he’s failed to find a cleft.
This may happen when it’s a single page or when it commands a heft.
It’s this very threat of failure that leads the poet from rage to rage.
The poem must differ from prose as much as it must accord with its age.
Just the same, the reader must not be led into the poem by his nose.
His entrance is a chasm created by speech in one of its throes.
This means that poetry must not strive to be overly poetic.
Then how do you attain it? Trust me, it’s veritably noetic
(defined in the dictionary as “of or pertaining to reason”…
although I’d say it’s not so much intellect as intellect’s treason).
The Foxhole Inn
You’ve just been apprized what the foxhole in the first poem is all about –
though it’s true I wasn’t aware of it myself when I wrote it out.
I’m a bit more wary, however, of telling you about the fox,
for I’m not sure whether it’s as real or as important as its box.
And the inn in which the patrons appear to be enjoying their meal –
it’s too early to say that “Foxhole” isn’t simply its name, I feel.
You’ve got to tread about the parts that show up in poems circumspectly.
They should all be gathered up, numbered, and placed on their shelves respectly…
respectively, that is – a Freudian slip with respect to respect
(such errors are bound to crop up through either clumsiness or neglect).
To the Tap
Has anything nibbled yet, my youthful slip? That is, what have you found?
Just a few minnows in your pail...and alas, you’re not making a sound.
I know, believe me. At first it’s like an indecipherable Braille.
Or, if you’re lucky to pull one up, you can’t tell its head from its tail.
But hell, we have time. So let’s to the tap and quaff down another cup.
If nothing bigger comes along, we’ve got these minnows on which to sup.
The patrons back at the inn are looking out at us through their windows.
They’re curious as to what we’ve been able to fish up through the prose.
It would seem they’ve collectively decided to make our inn their home.
As we’ve been hired to entertain them, let’s satisfy them with a poem.
The Truest Poem
A truer poem has never been written
than the one in which we’re caught.
No one appears to be transcribing it,
but for that we’re not distraught.
And a truer picture’s not been drawn
than the one in which we’re enframed.
There may be a symbol that goes with it,
though in fact it’s not been named.
A truer building’s never been built
than the one in which we reside.
The floor stretches out from this wall to that
and it’s seven nothings wide.
And a truer tune has never been sung
than the one in which we’re hymned.
The verses roll off one by one
and the refrain is solidly rimmed.
Indeed, there’s never been a truer hole
than the one in which we dwell.
It’s the one we’ve inhabited from the start –
the gap through which we fell.
Mounted and Veiled
Not bad at all, my dear Philip – it was accomplished with grace and art.
Slender and beautifully scaled, and it flew through the air like a dart.
We’ll take it in and clean it off, have it properly mounted and veiled,
situate it so that the patrons know just how it’s headed and tailed.
We’ll carefully conceal it from the chefs, with their cleavers and aprons –
off their posts on a cigarette break, away from their roasting capons.
It’ll occupy a space of privilege in our secret cloister.
If it’s too dry, we’ll relocate to a room where the breeze is moister.
For they air differently in places where there is or isn’t gloom –
just as our own moods vary with proximity to cradle or tomb.
- to be continued -
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