Poetry: the agony and the ecstasy
Tonight I had a poem that would not budge.
On the tip of my tongue, it needed a nudge.
I reached in and jabbed it with the pencil in my hand.
But the damn thing wedged against my thyroid gland.
No need to panic I’ve had poems stuck before.
Ten stanzas and more; thick as an apple core.
The trick is to Heimlich and belch out the verse.
Get it out of your mouth before things get worse.
This poem was stubborn and lodged in pretty tight,
Depriving me of oxygen and putting up a good fight.
I rushed to the hospital and somehow they knew:
“Got a poet here,” the nurse yelled, “another code blue.”
The doctor said, “yep, I can see it” and remained rather cool,
Then reached in a drawer for his poetry extraction tool.
With long slender tweezers he reached down my throat.
“Hurt?” he asked. “Yes!” I gagged, but sounded like a goat.
I watched it disgorge; this was my grandest poem yet!
I could make out a few words: perfume, lipstick, fishnet.
They put the poem in a shoebox and sent me on my way
With a bill for $200 that I promised to pay.
The shoebox rattled though I carried it with care.
This poem was sure lively for a lot of hot air.
At home I opened the box and looked at the scramble.
I poked and I rummaged until I found the preamble.
I'm still cleaning it up and I will be for a while:
The gaps and misspellings, and all that black bile.
Too much information, I hear what you're saying.
“We get the picture, the story you're portraying.”
So I'll stop it right here and risk not your scorn.
Just thought you'd like to know how my poetry is born.
8:15:07 PM  Poems
|
