Huuklyeand Cinquor on the Unamused Muse

Don’t you read me loud and clear,

You foot-dragging, lifeless

Klutzes cluttering up my rear?

I said it’s deadline time!

Okay.

Now, take one final step forward,

Put your lives on the line and please,

Please don’t make me repeat myself,

Do I make myself clear?

Moderator’s comments: I don’t know about you but I find Cinquor’s tirade against deadbeat poets totally uncalled-for because it oversteps the bounds of poetic decency; after all, where would our muse be if it weren’t for that long illustrious line of bootlickers waiting their turn to grovel at her feet—or should I say feat?

Huuklyeand Cinquor on the Preponderance of Whores on Wall Street

Honey, I keep telling you

If life is so damn sweet, why

Are there so many sour pusses

Walking the streets?

Moderator’s comments: Damn good question, Cinquor. Keep it up and you’ll screw things up good too.

Huuklyeand Cinquor On Going In Circles

Someone’s forever
Telling me 

Somewhere round 
Here is a square peg. 



Moderator’s comments: The apotheosis of the absurd in only eleven words; however, what remains of my frazzled logic impels me to peg the odds at 99-1 that prior to writing this “exercise in futility,” Cinquor envisaged the specter of the great Archimedes (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archimedes) uttering his famous last words “Do not disturb my circles” just before an enraged, mathematically ignorant Roman soldier “put him in a pine box” for what he thought was insubordination when, in reality, all the good mathematician had in mind was to continue his line of thought undisturbed, outside the box!

 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poets Burning for Recognition

A forest

Of white ashes smoldering

After an inferno.

Moderator’s comments: A case of A Burnt-Out Case hot on the heels of “You can’t see the forest for the trees?” How original, Cinquor! You must be glowing with satisfaction whereas my ashen face is turning green with envy.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poets Sick to Death of the Muse

Ma chérie, I know

You’re dying to tell us a story,

But before you do, please

Please don’t tell us

It ends adieu.

Moderator’s comments: In all seriousness, could this indecorously punning poem be a veiled allusion to Graves’ Good-bye to All That? If so, it would serve to reinforce the opinion—shared by many seasoned and decorated veterans of the poetry wars—that Cinquor has finally crossed the thin, hazy line separating poetic decency from crass stupidity; he should therefore be declared persona non grata in La República Musa and dispatched to No Man’s Land with no further ado.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Minor Underground Poets

Oh, the ignominy of it all! 
To die as they lived, revolting 

And buried underneath rotting 
Sheaves of subversive verse. 

Moderator’s comment: As this is Cinquor’s first communiqué in almost a year, I trust he isn’t having second thoughts about continuing our five-year cooperative venture as set forth in this initial blog entry of October 11, 2010; worse yet, I’m worried to death he’s approaching terminal burn-out phase and will soon be beyond saving. Perish the thought! I don’t know what I’d do without his horseplay poetic and gadfly manner rearing their heads now and then and injecting some sorely needed life into this deadly lackluster blog. 

NB: I hope I’m wrong but why do I sense Huuk is describing himself here rather than some nameless poetic pencil-pushers pushing for world revolution through the medium of putrefying polemic verse?

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Bestiality in Poets

Beware of gimp-footed idyllic gambols

That reek of Arcadia—a shepherd’s

Reputation is only as unsullied

As his sheep.

Moderator’s comments: Well, Cinquor, I know this is going to be in bad taste, and some animal lover doggedly plowing in the blogosphere’s lower forty looking for beastly remarks about our four-footed friends might get upset and flag me for promoting cruelty to animals, but I can’t resist this delicious, Orwellian-reeking rejoinder, to wit—“Two legs baaaaad, four legs good?”

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Pegasus and Company

If—as you say, my dear Wallace— 

There was indeed a time when

Both steed and rider were noble, how come 

It's only the rider who's now 

A transmogrified ass? 

Moderator’s comment: The reader (and/or perhaps, writer) is kindly instructed to sashay over to Cinquor's PDF Corral where our Noble Rider Huuk probably picked up his misguided, asinine idea of trying to harness the sound of words. I tell you if Stevens were alive, he’d be kicking some bad ass and picking up the insurance benefits to boot!

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Why Begging the Question Never Pays

Get smart, mendicant—

You wouldn’t be holding your hand out

Asking yourself why, if someone gave you

Their two cents’ worth every time

You said something stupid in reply.

Moderator’s comments: Cinquor, en archei aiteisthai or hysteron proteron?

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poetic Dysfunction

As in penis, stud—

When you think you’re in

Doubt of the outcome.

Moderator’s comments: Even though one senses a self-indulgent literary poseur at work here—one who revels in letting himself drift headlong towards the literal pornographic as opposed to the artistic—one can still envy Cinquor’s masterly albeit quirky handing of an overworked but still controversial phenomenon whose occurrence continues to be on the rise, judging from the increased exposure it’s been getting lately. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poetry for Dummies

As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking, -- John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ's sake, look
out where yr going.

—Robert Creeley, “I Know a Man”

As we were

All well behind the times,

Unable to distinguish

Well-wrought poetry

From pedestrian rhyme,

Our forward-looking instructor

Gave us a crash course

On how to maneuver

Between the lines—

Would you believe it?

In no time at all,

We were so well-versed,

We drove him up a wall.

Moderator’s comments: I don’t know about Cinquor’s mentor, but mine was so forward-looking he walked to his poetry classes.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Living with Sleaze

Tut-tut, now no tacky

Remonstrations—

We all know 
Truth is words lie.

Like it or not,

It’s our one and only

Natural habit

Tat.

Moderator’s comments:  Whoever said punning was cheap and vulgar should take a closer look at how punningly Cinquor incorporates into this droll, little poem the British noun “tat” tastelessness by virtue of being cheap and vulgar, rather than its American counterpart “tackiness”—I say bloody good show, Cinq.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on the Polemics of Poetics

It was said that because he had been blessed 
With an impersonal peaceful nature, he had nothing 
To do with launching personal attacks demeaning 
Any fellow poetic character; that he preferred 
To remain on neutral ground, a strange sort 
Of angelic no man’s land where the twilight was 
So ambiguous you could not make out where 
The next deadly round was coming from. 


Moderator’s comments: Toeing the postmodernist line to near faultless perfection, Cinquor craftily avoids any hint of (dis)closure here but the poet in question must surely be a practitioner of blank verse, right? 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on The Canon

Wherein

The explosive self

Propelled

Poet refuses

To remain

A projectile forever.

Moderator’s comments: Nice to see Cinquor’s back; his prolonged silence

had me thinking he’d  maybe shot his wad, but this all-out frontal assault on the canon is fiery evidence he’s still balling the jack.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Running with the Devil

Hell,

It’s easier than walking barefoot

Over hot coals on the way

To paradise.

Moderator’s comments: I wonder if Cinquor had the Anastenarides in mind when writing this iconoclastic little piece.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Satiated Corpuses

[…the poet’s] entire body promises to satisfy our every whim and fancy

while we wait for his creative juices to start flowing once that first course arrives.*

You say

This fare is a bookworm’s

Unforgettable delight

Easily digested, my friend—

If so, why then

At the end the taste

Of gritty grubs ruminating

On tips of tumescent tongues?

*Blurb by one Randall Cann Standall on back cover of the Complete Poetical Works of X.S. Wasserbildj-Vandersluis, publisher unspecified.

Moderator’s comments: I don’t know about you guys but I’ve just about had my fill of Cinquor’s tasteless and tiresome efforts. The next time he sends me something like this, I’m going to return it to him with the following instructions (in block letters) on the envelope:  DROP DEAD, WRITE LATER.

 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Confrontational Vanguard Poetics

Are you reading this? Well,
Nailed to the wall of the derelict 
Latrine next to the yellowed stool, 
A rusty spike holds all 
The news from the rearguard 
That’s shit to print, you fool.


Moderator’s comments: A close reading of this poem reveals Cinquor’s forte, namely his en garde rapier-like wit deceptively hiding under the surface but always ready to leap forth and revel in exposing the foibles of contemporary verse theory. All well and welcome, of course, but permit me to have my reservations about the intentions behind his pressing yellow attacks on such an  august postmodern body of verse learning. A bit more to the point: Scuttlebutt on the blogosphere has it he’s preparing a tome of his apophthegmata and planning to use this blog as a launching pad. If this is indeed the case, I must impress on him the fact that copyright law dictates I be paid in full, if and when his coprolalia eventually hits the fan. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Going in Circles

Somewhere round

Here is a square peg.

Moderator’s comments: The apotheosis of the absurd in only seven words; however, what remains of my frazzled logic impels me to peg the odds at 99-1 that prior to writing this “exercise in futility,” Cinquor envisaged the specter of the great Archimedes uttering his famous last words “Do not disturb my circles” just before an enraged, mathematically ignorant Roman soldier “put him in a pine box” for what he thought was insubordination, when in reality all the good mathematician had in mind was to continue his line of thought undisturbed, outside the box.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poets Sounding Out Their Voice

No, no, you’re doing fine 
Mates, plumb no deeper— 

You’ll find that buoyant 
Voice you’re looking for bobbing 

Right here near the surface, not 
Sinking at the end 

Of one last desperate line. 


Moderator’s comments: Cinquor twitching like a catastomid on the end of a gaffe(sic)—this guy doesn’t know Trout Fishing in America from The Compleat Angler. Why he presumes to be such an authority on the murky current state of American poetry is anybody’s guess, but there’s a strong possibility it might have something to do with his piscine-sounding name.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poetic Ciphers

Arrogant to the letter, always

Telling us all his poems,

Even the easiest ones

Are made up simply of words, asking

Why do we not understand them, I can

Deal with that but when

Is this cipher ever going to tell us what

His poems are not then? 


Moderator's comments: No Cinquor--he's not.