at Professor Collins’ door
(written on Tuesday, January 25, 2005, around daybreak)
I knocked on Professor Collins’ door,
hoping to hear from the horse’s mouth
how to write a sensible poem.
For the life of me, I couldn’t do it.
And Gary seemed to think
that meeting a real Poet might help.
I thought that once we talked,
the Professor could put his suspicions into reasonable words:
“a wounded duck would hardly fly straight
tumbling through smoky gunshot air”
and conclude his pithy argument:
“it’s hard to see the ground
while spinning round and round.”
Perhaps, rather than being physicist,
he would be physician and
diagnose the wrenching cramps
of my remorse and aspiration.
Then he might prescribe a palliative,
yes a laxative for evacuating the soul!
There must be a confessional somewhere on campus,
like a plastic blue johnny for moving one’s bowels in a hurry.
As I began anticipating the relief of clarification
and rehearsed my thankfulness in advance,
a secretary walked out of the Professor’s office,
flicking off the lightness of being I was already feeling.
“He plays golf on Thursday afternoon,” she said.
I knocked on Professor Collins’ door,
hoping to hear from the horse’s mouth
how to write a sensible poem.
For the life of me, I couldn’t do it.
And Gary seemed to think
that meeting a real Poet might help.
I thought that once we talked,
the Professor could put his suspicions into reasonable words:
“a wounded duck would hardly fly straight
tumbling through smoky gunshot air”
and conclude his pithy argument:
“it’s hard to see the ground
while spinning round and round.”
Perhaps, rather than being physicist,
he would be physician and
diagnose the wrenching cramps
of my remorse and aspiration.
Then he might prescribe a palliative,
yes a laxative for evacuating the soul!
There must be a confessional somewhere on campus,
like a plastic blue johnny for moving one’s bowels in a hurry.
As I began anticipating the relief of clarification
and rehearsed my thankfulness in advance,
a secretary walked out of the Professor’s office,
flicking off the lightness of being I was already feeling.
“He plays golf on Thursday afternoon,” she said.
Tags: clarification, confession, poem, sensibility, writing
Replies to This Discussion
-
Permalink Reply by Ian Carmichael on
-
Not so hasty, Skip, said Collins,
A poem must brew and age,
Not full-made like Athena,
But steeped with spice - and sage.
So pause - Wordsworthy fellow
Take time to sit, methinks
the concepts come, and mellow
Whilst driving on the links.
(with apologies to real poets)
About
Fireside Council
Questions, problems, comments? Here is the "Fireside Council" of folks who help Connie with the administration of this site: Anna, Ian, Mike, and Or-Tal. Click on their names to visit their Profile Pages and leave comments for them with your inquiries and ideas! Meanwhile, if you have technical questions or suggestions, Laura will be glad to help.
Roll The Dice
Roll the dice... and visit a random Fireside member production online!
Roll The Dice
Roll the dice... and visit a random Fireside member production online!
(It's easy to make your own Delicious dice if you want!)
Delicious Firesidelearning
© 2009 Created by Connie Weber on Ning. Create a Ning Network!
