Diary of a Mad Editor

Archive for September 13th, 2007

So What You Are a Poet? No One Cares, Pt. 4

You are at the mic, finishing your set. Already, it’s begun — those eager beavers hovering at the edge of the stage with their notebooks full of verse. You end your set, say something pithy to the crowd and head to the counter to order a cup of green tea to sooth your weary throat. You are stopped by one of the eager beavers — an androgynous fellow/female? carrying about 20 notebooks.

“Yes?” you say, “May I help you?”

“Your poems were . . . ah . . . interesting?” (S)he says, not even trying to hide the sarcasm.

“You didn’t care for them?”

“Well . . . did you have to curse so much?”

“I didn’t realize I had. A few times maybe. What’s your point?”

“Your stuff is kind of . . .”

“Raw? I suppose some of it is. Again, what’s your point?”

“You’re like the Andrew Dice Clay of poetry.”

“If you say so.”

“I don’t like Andrew Dice Clay. He’s crude.”

At this point, you are getting nervous, wonder if this person has just escaped from a mental ward somewhere and is possibly armed.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know much about that. I’m more into George Carlin, myself.”

“Have you been published?”

“Here and there.”

“Really?” Again, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm.

“Have you been published?”

(S)he gets this big grin on his/her face and hugs the 20 notebooks tightly to his/her chest.

“Oh yes. I was published in several anthologies from the prestigious International Poets Society.”

“You don’t say? How nice for you.”

“Sometimes the Muse blesses me with inspiration.”

“Is that like having a gas attack?”

“Oh, you’re witty.”

“Yeah, so people tell me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get something to drink. Good luck with your muse.”

You trail off and have a seat by the door with your tea. Your “fan” hovers around the edges of you the rest of the evening, trying to get you to notice. Trying to get up the nerve to ask you to read the poems in those 20 sacred notebooks.

But you don’t have to read them to know that those “poems” are trite, lifeless — uninspired nothings. You don’t have to read what’s in those notebooks to know that your “fan” has the word “Poet” in bold print on his/her personal stationary and the he/she believes his/her poetry will bring about world peace, cure diseases, etc.

And what can you say to such a person? Tell them what you really think and they will become hostile, accuse you of jealousy, of wanting to steal their poems, etc. Tell them what they want to hear, and they are suddenly your new best friend and you can’t get rid of them.

You do the smart thing — you drink your tea quickly and get the fuck outta Dodge while the gettin’ is good.