poems by tom miller

new formalism

a writer of moderate fame came to lecture at our local poetry reading

and as he listed off his accolades and publication credits, we mocked

him

 

silently to ourselves between sips of beer and hidden laughter-- he

began to read, some highhanded bird poetry with the sky

and flowing waters

 

and all of that, and someone in the back burped-- but the gentleman went on

 

brushing it off like lint,

 

as

if it hadn’t happened, and told of his lost love and her eyes as blue

as sky and water, and more sky and water and then birds,

 

and others began to

burp aloud and cat call-- he was looking a little unnerved and he

reminded us

of his doctoral degrees and that he was published recently

in the new yorker,

and in poetry magazine, and the james dickey newsletter,

and one of the punks

 

started to masturbate and shot a load on his fist, imitating the man’s

work--

 

the crowd was growing restless, anxious for the smoke break,

reading their own rants to themselves, from tattered pages,

trying to determine which one to shout, and still he continued--

 

frankly, i admired his tenacity--

 

about sky and water, he introduced a mountain--

 

i had had enough.

 

i shouted, "get off the stage you hack. this is a poetry reading."

and he angrily replied,

 

"young man, i’ll have you know that i have been writing over

fifty years, and i have won many prestigious awards for my work

all over the country."

 

and i said, "stick ‘em up your ass, methuselah."

and i laughed at him,

pointing and jeering.

 

the rest of the audience booed him clean off the stage,

out the door,

out of town,

and i said, "thank god! now let’s get on with the poetry."

 

then

most of the crowd got up and convened on the sidewalk outside,

smoking cigarettes and cloves, some stayed inside and drank,

and the punk

fucked his girlfriend in the front row

while others watched,

 

some of them taking notes for next week’s reading.