The Tyrants of Academia Support An Ancient Canon of Inaccessible Poetry Only
by Benign Critic
Rules. No poet will be widely read, or be famous unless the official Academy says so. Even the reincarnation of Shakespeare would not be able to publish successfully. I know because some monks found him as a child in Tibet, and he has not done well even after coining hundreds of new English words and performing satirical plays across the globe.
Alas, the poem as an object of academic analysis, is like a canonical form of a mathematical object: it is well-defined, has its prescribed, numbered elixirs sweetened with ordered rhymes, but still has no charm like ice-cream verse dropped on pizza or in coffee, or dropped on a hot tongue. It is dainty cake after a full meal, a billion calories without meaning.
Once, poor Miss Marie Muffet Antoinette, PhD., with an overwrought sonnet in her heavy bonnet, tilted her head too quickly and broke her neck. But such deaths of poetry objects are few and punishments for poetic obscurity are the rare exceptions.
The free-verse revolution began against the Royalty, but failed to topple all the leaders except for Marie who was replaced. The genre is starved. The Establishment still stands on top of the cake, but the people are tired of insular brioche, bread and water in a unpublished cell.
A Declaration By The Representatives of the Disunited-Fickle Poets in General Campus Dissembling,* July 4, 2776
[*See and compare to “The Declaration of Independence, 1776”]
When, in the course of poetic events, it becomes necessary for the miserable poets to dissolve the political bands which have connected them to the University, and to assume, among the powers of the planet, the separate and equal status to which the laws of Muses and of nature’s God entitle them, then an indecent, begrudging respect to the opinions of academics requires that they should declare Free Verse as a divine right of the people.
We hold these truths to be self-evident that all free poets and poetesses are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain free-verse rights; that among these, are life, liberty, and the pursuit of inalienable publishing.
We do not take lightly the disestablishment of places of higher learning and obfuscation. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Universities long established, shall only be vitiated for cause. But, when a long train of abuses and usurpations occurs in narrow-minded credentialing, pursuing invariably censorship for the same object, then when it does evince a diabolical design to reduce the people under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty to throw off such Academies to provide enfranchisement for the miserable poets and the publishing of their works in such Town Square as shall be seen in all venues.
Therefore, in dawn’s early light, let a canon of accessible poetry be loaded into its cannon and be fired to breach the ramparts and ivory towers.
The Revolution Requires Les Misérables Poètes To Reveal Elements of the True Canon
Les Misérables Poètes therefore, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do solemnly publish and declare, that these misérables are and of right ought to be in free-verse states of grace, firing from their true and magnificent cannon canon, having full power to levy metaphorical war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and do all other play things which children of the Great Forums of the Universe have a divine right to indulge.
So say we with the firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence
Samples From The True Canon of Les Misérables Poètes
Preggo Girls Band
by Cheryl Kurtz
We compose music
pro utero publico, ’cause
little guy kicks in vivo tunes
The adoption clique came
they saw, they loved us enough
to make the preggo club house, and
we’ve got a band and have
the stomach for it, ’cause
the little guy likes it
Hard getting up on stage, but
I can sit down at the keyboards while
the others might hang the guitars low
or maybe switch to flute.
sad though that Luna
had a miscarriage when
demonstrators attacked our home,
women screaming “abortion.”
We’re getting security for the next gig
so our band can play on, ’cause
the little guy likes music, and
it’s been a while since Mom
sang a lullaby to me before
the righteous folks threw me
out of the house
The testosterones have
taken their faux love talk
and walked no-way sorry
in a fling-run spring ball
all gall and no crown
little boys all grown down,
no bacon to bring home
as gallant as pigs when
the jig dance rabbit dies
We’ve got a new concert tour,
and the adoptive parents
will applaud and wait in the wings,
little guy soon to fly and be King.
Leaving in the Dawn
by Bryan Glennon
I had always left early in the dawn
while you were sleeping, and
the sunrise was uncertain, but
we used to be us
when I rushed home to you
and your cute blush became
a call to jump each other
not just for lust, but
because we were
knowing the bounce
to pounce on a
tête à tête, and a
corps à corps, but
we were both surrendering to laughter
and to ecstasy in a close game
where the balls are in the courtship
and the Lady swings well
We used to be playful
and the fun was a done deal
We had our own dance,
our own grace
We were a story to tell,
a revelation, and
I told you everything just because
you were the most elegant storyteller ever
and I didn’t mind being a character for you
Yet, today, I can not rise up, and
I’ve lost my part, my way, my lines, my love
my playfulness, my being
I am empty.
I am dark.
Tell me a story.
How do I speak to you
now that you’re dead?