Everyone is being polite,
And that’s the problem with the poetry tonight.
Everyone praises, so I cannot tell
Whether I am doing well.
Publish me in your magazine;
OK. Now it’s impolite to say what else you mean.
Look at all these modern, busy bees:
Poetry’s unspoken absurdities.
The truth, which is both common and dear,
Enforces its reality then, and now,
But so coyly, I never know when, or how
Truth is calling, or not calling my name:
“Here I am!” But truth, and the search for truth are not the same.
Tonight we wanted to discuss the MFA:
Legitimate, or not? We were too polite to say;
Those who had one, taught in one,
Earned their living from an MFA,
Were too vulnerable. There was nothing we could say.
Polite is best when driving—traffic laws have one object:
Agree. To get home, I will let
You go first. No poetry here. The stop
Sign works best when it’s obeyed.
“G’nite Mrs. Richards, g’nite Sal!”
Delay here—so later you won’t get delayed;
Accommodate the motions
Of all; but why do we have such odd notions
Of poets and poetry? Poetry isn’t traffic.
The point of poetry is not for everyone to get along
By stopping and conceding and delaying.
Poetry is the immediacy of song;
Poetry runs the stop sign of all saying,
No poet can tell poetry what to say.
Poetry is not like truth, in that truth
And the search for truth are not the same.
Poetry is not polite, ordered by route and name.
Poetry is honest. Poetry seeks blame.
Poetry seeks revenge. Poetry knows evil.
Poetry loves crooked and level.
Poetry spills the beans.
Poetry peels off everyone’s jeans
And laughs. Poetry will not be dropped
For something else; song can’t be stopped.
Poetry, and what I’m saying
About you, are the same. Delaying
Is impossible. What I’m saying
On the poetry is the poetry,
Was the poetry, and will always be the poetry.
Poetry and truth are the same.
Jonathan! Do you see how hypocrisy dies in my flame?