Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poets Coming Clean with their Craft

I thought if I washed out my mouth with lots 
Of soap and water, my speech 
Would henceforth spume forth 
A fountainhead 

Of pure verse shining 
And smelling like a million bucks— 
But all that came up reeked 
Of a foul, wishy-washy tongue all 

Fucked up and too utterly bankrupt 
To strive towards any semblance of upkeep. 


Moderator’s comment: Huuk certainly knows his way around the poetic blogosphere— who would have thought he’d latch on to a catchy phrase from Conrad DiDiodato’s comment on a post over at ursprache and work it into a telling commentary on the modern poet’s coming to terms with his/her language predicament—whatever that may be.

NB:

In the event the ursprache link is broken, here’s Conrad’s comment on a Seferis quote (“Unimaginable how much patience is needed to see the simplest things. How much patience I need to write a single verse.”):

Borrowing phraseology from C.S.Lewis, I'd say you can start by wanting to write good verse (for which much patience is required) and in the end you may get Poetry; however, beginning with the "soap and water" of much contemporary poetry will get you nothing at all. Of that you can be certain

Crafty

how cute          can you get you

ask                  yourself  begging

the ugly

question          you refuse

point-blank      to answer.

Encomium

So down-to-earth 
The plodding, the bearing 
So very on the nose, poised

On the edge with a stiff 
Upper lip, this was a poet who knew 
Exactly where he was going. 

Meant Not for the Birds

not 

believing 
what 
is 

in 
the 
air 

on 
the 
coast, 

incredulous 
gulls 

flock 
in 

to 
see 

inland 
sea 

of 
garbage, 

make 
sure 

they 
bring 
back 
plenty 

mementos 
for 
scrap 

book 
of 
unbelievable 
day 

trip 
there.

Great Expectations from the Dark Night

I’ve been lying low on this hillock waiting for the sun 
To descend behind the floating blue 
Black mountains every evening for ages 
And have yet to let anybody down— 

As sure as my name is Legion, any minute 
Now the needlelike cypresses reaching 
For the heavens will begin 
Sinking into the landscape again.