To The Snobs Who Killed Poetry (prose polemic)

(Tyrants and Literary Journals Be Damned)

My poem speaks to me like Rodney Dangerfield: “I don’t get no respect,” it says. However, if I speak for myself in a verse, sacademics tell me I’m more self-indulgent than they in their inaccessible Ivory Towers. Where do you go poetics professor who fingers the day, an archer sans arrows, head in a sling to avoid the palm or knuckle of a meaning, head off hand? Wherefore art thou gatekeeper, why clipped-lawn guardian, who waters my dandelions with salt and urine? Poetics professor, take thee to a barn and let my horses gallop, for they are true poetry, whilst you are as fertile as what you would step on.
    Friends, if you pass Shakespeare on the street, let him be dead:
Carp not the day, but
kiss the past good-bye,
consume the meats of glory
while salad days are over,
green envy of youth begins,
and I say unto you:

friends, toilmen, bumpkins
lend me your eyes to spy;
I have come to bury caesar salad
not to praise tyrants as Caesar
fishy and salty like an anchovy

See me praise the dance
on the graves of the grave,
and praise the praise
brought to ceremonials

Cheer me
and I shall be cheered,
for no one can tell me
what the sound is
of one tear clapping
in a thunder kiss
applauding the future
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert