I wrote this poem on Tuesday, January 25, 2005, a month after I started writing poems on December 25, 2004. The Gary in the poem is a boyhood friend. More at http://curiositymatters.wordpress.com/2007/02/15/at-professor-collins-door-written-12505/
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 hardly flies 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.
Poetry by Skip Zilla
Read 511 times
Written on 2011-04-28 at 18:04
Tags Homeless
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
at Professor Collins' door
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 hardly flies 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.
Poetry by Skip Zilla
Read 511 times
Written on 2011-04-28 at 18:04
Tags Homeless
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
