all the poetry in the world cain't halp iffen you was raised in a barn

Last night, I entertained you with my dalliances at a "poetry" site, where it is mostly all gush and gore but mostly good intentioned and lighthearted.

illustrator: abrakadabra

I forgot that just labeling a place "poetry" doesn't keep out the troglodytes. 

And that joining such a club doesn't wring the last drips of troglodyte-me out of moi.

You gotta wrack up the points to be worth your salt as a salty poet over there, and a part of that sodium content is achieved by weeping praise in comments left your brother and sister writers.

Can I escape my academic background?  Yes, of course, I can.  Do I want to, having invested blood, sweat, tears, and more money than most medical specialists in my advanced education?  No way in hell.  Besides, it is a mantle I can wear when I've no idea who the heck I really am, and it provides good words.  Lots and lots of words.

[Will the echo of Brother-Unit Grader Boob, admonishing me about "too many words," ever echo it's damned self into the canyon's oblivion?]

What many people don't know, though more know than I suspect know, is that The Academic is as raunchy and ill-mannered and whatever-other-synonym for "raised in a barn" you'd like to add... as is anyone you're likely to meet in the produce aisle.

[Unless you're talented and self-sufficient and raise your own produce!  Big wave to TW, whose bounteous box of booty arrived yesterday!  Such stews and soups and sauces I dreamt of, and what wonderful Brother-Units, too. OKAY, GRADER BOOB, YOU CAN SHUT THE FUCK UP NOW WITH THE TOO MANY WORDS CRAP... jeez.]

Hmmm.  What is actually emerging in me are some things, some ones, that I've been missing -- The Editor, The Translator.  I love those guys, I love that they hang out in me.  Usually, they're kicked back doing crossword puzzles and anagrams, and singing dirty ditties.  But lately, since this poetry site has been insisting on commentary, I've had to consult them.  "Psst, you two:  Do I do this like I'd do an undergrad's first essay in the second week of the term?  Or do it I lay it out there like the 5 pm seminar where everyone around the table looking wise was at my apartment the night before, puking tequila in my toilet?"

They usually split the difference -- they're big on Solomon as Wisdom Guide -- and advise:  "Aw, make it like it's a Junior repeating the class and it's a rewrite -- after peer-editing -- that way you know they were puking last night, but probably beer, so you can be sure it wasn't in your apartment, and then you can't be held responsible for anything you say."

The whole sordid affair... You knew this was about a Sordid Affair, didn't you?  That's why you're still here, admit it!  

The whole sordid affair began a few days ago, when I left my second comment ever on a poem that had been posted a couple of years ago.  I did not choose the poem to read, the magic computer poetry site smushed it in my face and said, "Comment or remain -- forevermore -- a wannabe poetess." So I gave it the laser intense focus of my best attention, and wrote, with sincerity, about some confusion of protagonists and my profound appreciation of a well-placed comma.  *You* know me, and you know the power of a well-placed comma.  Well, in my world.  I gave what I thought was a good representation of my level of appreciation -- two clapping hands out of three. And, really, given that I have but one shoulder and my other arm is flaky as all get out, well, two hands clapping is a barely achievable thang, anyways...

You gotta admit they're playing to the lowest common denominator of self-interest when the higher you rate (by means of iconic clapping hands) a poem, the more points YOU get.  So if I work really hard, and practice every day, and pray to the Lord above?  Maybe I can honestly come up with three hands clapping!  The orthopods would love to design such a prosthesis...

Raven on a Hill

So the poet in question took great offense.  

From the poem, I envisioned a 16 or 17 year old girl.  Not 15, not 18, my age-dar is incredibly accurate after years of teaching 18-22+ year olds, and then the Hell of a few years with the 15-18 crowd.

If the poet isn't lying, he claims to be 32.

He wrote:

I'm not certain about many of the things you have said in this comment. Why is enjoy the "wrong verb choice?" Why do you "struggle with the people peopling this poem?" What does that mean? Are you referring to the many people who "enjoyed" it? Are you saying you require me to argue my choice of words used herein?
I'm happy you enjoyed the comma.
Perhaps you could clarify. Is English your first language?

I apologized (my comments have been erased, "somehow," while his remain.  Kind of ass-backwards but, there you go...), explained that I was a rusty academic and tried, again, to convince him that the "comma" comment was from the heart, though drifting more and more toward the gut.

To which he wizzed back:

Yes... an academic.  No, not at all. Calling yourself an academic in order to excuse yourself from incoherence. That's not going to fly here.
As to your comment on confusion, you seem to be the only one confused.
"party of one"
I'm not, as you can plainly see arguing anything you ignoramus. You just come across as pompous, confused and incoherent. However, I was uncertain, I turned to a couple trusty readers, and it's safe to say, your comment is obscure at best.
Thanks wierdo.
~M

Ah.  I guess this is supposed to be... sport?  So I thought best to bow out.  I did throw myself a pity party, feeling maligned by what was a rude welcome to the site, but understanding that I can be dense (in any way you'd like to define "dense"), and closed with a request for mutual compassion.

As fast as fast can be in electronic time, he rallied:

I could certainly show compassion. However, upon my first visit to your page and reading what you've posted there, I suppose I got a really bad impression. Perhaps the community would welcome you a bit more, if the first thing you did upon joining was something other than posting an insult to to the same community you wish to be a part of on your user page.

BOING!  Arrow to the heart.  This is what I had written on my "user page," though I blushed now at the thought of a 32-year old poet reading such nonsense:  

I admit that this place scares me. Many levels of talent.  Many people married to their words.  I cannot speak to the passion, purportedly what binds the community? (Is that right?  Did I get that right?) 

If so, Isn't it a bit on the masturbatory side of things? And remember -- whether you are for masturbation or all in a lather against it -- it is you who bring any weighty value to the word, much less the act! 

"Pay up and buy your word concoctions some love?"
(As You Like It, of course -- carrying the risk of "too much of a good thing," and the potential need for potent antibiotics.) 

But there is an innate rightness in that: Poetry should be a commodity, bought and sold. And maybe here, it's reached the thin air where ditties are bartered?  And again, don't weigh down my word choice with judgment. 

Just sit with it.  Masturbatory, Community, Dripping Love Infectious Concoctions, A Commodities Exchange (What three applauding marauding hands can get you!), Bartered Ditties. 

Hey, that's probably the most profound BrainBlurb I've had on poetics, ever!
Were I blessed to be in a band, "Bartered Ditties" might be a top twenty name choice.

I had to put SOMETHING.  And, I swear, I just decided to be honest.  After all, I was not a "gold member," had put nothing on the head of the barrel, and was not out to delude anyone.  Oh, no, not pretending to be my dead cat Monaghan and an -- ach mein gott! -- academic!

So I let the matter go.  Really.

Then, two days ago, or yesterday, I receive this message from said poet:

I don't give a fuck what you do. lol

Without referential background... I think I ignored it.  Not sure.  I may have inquired as to what the fuck the asshole was pulling out of his butt now... but I don't think so.

Then, today, again without the courtesy of a point of origin:

hey, guess what...
fuck you!

One hour post that "fuck you," I got another!

hey, guess what...
fuck you!

So I guess it's on some sort of bot timer and I'll be receiving these forever. 

Oh, wait!  Here is my last comment, somehow not yet erased!  

and wayyyyy up yours.  man, you class up the joint.

Ravens Corner Pharmacy

In other news, I wrote a new poem.  Honest to God, I cannot read that -- "I wrote a new poem" -- without requiring medication for seizures!  Anyway, I *did* -- in defense of poor Poe's raven.  They have it scattered everywhere other there, and you'll note I made recent use of a poor crow, too -- but whose wings were battered, frayed.  I think I'm getting too old for all this.  After all, I'm not a 32 year old.  From California.  

{giggling at the memory of the drive-bys on our oakland avenue, at walking from berkeley to sausalito in cotton chinese mary janes, at getting drunk just before the defense of my thesis, at the china bowl express in lalaland, in awe of the people i loved and admired there...}

Sniff. Pinky in air.  Ready for the poem?

Madness makes an easy exit

by Monaghan

my heart bleeds

(a good thing)

for poe's poor raven.

raped all over the damned place,

placed wittily on the extended lyric limn of capital letters --

limbic, but not near enough obscure

that anyone could fail to make

the connection.

i mean, the raven is a one-word

bird and the narrator descending, as narrators

so often do, into

messy madness -- because madness makes

an easy exit from a poem.

Okay, well, this concludes today's soap opera digest of what's going on in the pay-your-way poetry world!  Fred and Ruby just tore off down the road toward the vet again -- no, Bodacious Buddy is fine.  He decided to take Dobby and Marmy in for their annual exams, and we had all kinds of fun getting Marmy into the pet carrier... because Fred does know that those two lose in the car might land him in Tante Louise's jail for Funky Driving.  Besides, being Mother and Son, they comfort each other.  And Marmy gets to piss all over Dobby, the highlight of her year.  The poor thing is terrified of the vet, source, she knows, of that accursed eye goop.

I'm outta here... Buddy is crying, never having been separated from his feline friends before.  Maybe this is where, and how, I am supposed to be.