Encounters in a Poetry Workshop

1) The Toady

Will only critique poems by ‘Staff’
“Lick a stamp and this is great”
Unaware he’s made a gaff
The ‘poem’ is a note from staff to state
“Guidelines that you must pay heed to”.
(Toadies think they never need to.)

2) The Entertainer

Likes attention to his post
Truth is never of the essence.
“It made me laugh” is what he most
likes to hear of his excrescence
When criticised his voice is terse
“It’s really hard to write light verse”

3) The Formalist

"Your rhyme is poor , you’re missing a stress
it’s only prose"— says the formalist
No work of merit will he bless
or praise at all if an iamb’s missed.
He’d sell his soul to the devil in Hell
to write a decent villanelle.


4) The Free Spirit

Has half a thought and lets
It run and run and run
And run and run
Proving to his satisfaction that poetry consists
of line
breaks.

5) The Space Cadet

A sensitive soul obsessed with the space
he employs on the page while quietly lamenting
he’s not a real poet but dreams of the place
he might achieve with better indenting.
Margins and capitals are his fortes
that and a liberal use of clichés


6) The Wise-ass

Is conscientious in carefully noting
all your grammar and typo mistakes.
He fixes your spelling, corrects your misquoting
and give his opinion on making line breaks.
He advises your effort is not worth the cost;
“It was handled better by Auden and Frost”.

7) The Show-off

Your poem invariably “Starts too early”
He’s a liberal sprinkler of “imo’s”
Tell him you think you’ve been critted unfairly
and he’s liable to lecture that you’ve “Written prose”.
Then just as you think that his discourse is run
he quotes his own poem to show how its done.

8) The Incredible Sulk

He’s really a 'gentleman', modest and meek
but looses his cool when he’s cut to the quick
by a less than fulsomely-praising critique.
from “Morons, stupid ill-read and thick”.
When he isn’t resigning he gets himself banned
but always returns with his cap in his hand.

Some more oldies:

There once was a lass named Fiona
in a former life called Desdemona;
her old lord and master
had threatened disaster,
but then she rebuilt her persona.

There once was a lass named Alicia
who sang of the Greek Dionysia—
of Samothrace Nike,
Eros and Psyche,
and times she got lost in Tunisia.

There once was a poet named Fi
who sang like the three Lorelei;
sailors paid her an ox
or they wrecked on the rocks,
except for her favorite, Bry.

There once was a poet named Boots
who harvested giant breadfruits;
then she etched on the pits
all her bits and her crits,
and fed all the rest to Paiutes.

There once was a fellow named Bob
whose interests were rather macabre;
his favorite scene
was to play guillotine,
and trim inch by inch from a snob.

Lots more too. I have one about Jim Hayes, if he wouldn't mind...and having met him, I know how untrue it is!

I'm glad you posted those, Jim - I did this spin-off in the voice of one of your characters.

The Lament of the Incredible Sulk

(After Swinburne's "A Leave-Taking")


The Incredible Sulk

He’s really a nice chap, modest and meek
but loses his cool when he’s cut to the quick
by a less than fulsomely-praising critique,
from morons, stupid ill-read and thick.
When he isn’t resigning he gets himself banned
and always returns with his cap in his hand.


Jim Hayes – “Encounters in a Poetry Workshop”


Let us depart, my poem; they do not hear.
Let us depart, logoff, and quit this 'Sphere;
across the screen I'll slide your shameful file,
and try to forget you were written, for at least a year,
or for at least a fairly long while.
Though we sang a song, precise, and sweet to our ear,
they would not hear.

Let us withdraw, sign off; they do not know.
Let us post elsewhere; perhaps give the Gaz a go;
full of free versers, I know; but what help is here?
Here is no help, only friction, stress and woe,
and feet being stamped till they ring and echo in our ear.
And should Yeats himself logon to say "it is so",
they would not know.

Let us unboot, and retire; they do not care.
Though we wrote a song of gold being beaten into air,
or where coral or amber studs love's pleasures prove,
or a song of how to love either the brown or fair;
though we write like one who made the angels move
down from the heavens to listen, risking despair,
they would not care.

And this one was inspired by a PM to a third party, written by someone we all know well, and shared with me. The subject in the poem is NOT a well-known member.


PM


Fuck you, you petty ugly little fuck!
How dare you curl that worm-thin lip at me!
If only you could see the way you suck
the pleasure out of life, you creepy flea!
But I have doubts that you could ever be
aware enough to know the rotten smell,
which makes your nostrils twitch in savage glee
of righteousness, boils from your private hell.
An “ignoranus” is a word coined well-
describing all your charms, you stupid arse!
You shouldn’t risk a fart, you might expel
your sulphur-smelling mind in the gas you pass.
I’ve met some nasty twats in cyber space,
but you’re the first with zero fucking grace.

I love them all, but especially yours, Mark.

Critique

Incinerate this poem
stir and pulverize the ashes
put them in a sealed hyper-oven
inside a high tech vacuum chamber
and turn it all to plasma gas until the gas
gives off a heat of burning adverbs so intense
it melts the oven, and the oven too will vaporize.
Entomb what’s left within a stainless steel capsule
sealed in lead encased in concrete, sink it in the deepest
ocean trench, or load it on a rocket aimed at space and fired at
escape velocity precisely calculated to deposit it on one of Saturn’s
moons.

Also,
if anybody finds a line worth saving or picks a word or two and says
here is your poem rebuild from this and just ignore what all those
assholes say I like your images and this one needs some work
but never give it up; then they and all their family shall be
rounded up, the seed shall never propagate, and sent
to some unknown place beyond the reach of writing
instruments or held in solitary in the most secure
and Super-Maximum of Federal escape-proof
penitentiaries where the walls are eight
to ten feet thick and the jailers all
unlettered mutes.


[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited July 04, 2008).]

Brilliant, Michael!

"Never Mind”

To smooth a rift, no words seem more felicitous
Than these, whose drift sounds golden and solicitous
Yet covers everything from Cheers, my friend!
And please don’t trouble more, to why pretend
It’s worth the time or effort or pretense
To sift your fill for any trace of sense??

A range which tells the otherwise inclined,
We have a lode of issues . . . never mined.

Frank


[This message has been edited by FOsen (edited July 04, 2008).]

LOL! These are great. Michael, yours should have its own thread so we can link directly to it as needed from TDE.

"But Why Then Publish?"

But seriously folks—
How do you tell a 'writer'
Who thinks your crits are jokes
His shit could not be shiter?

If nits won't turn his head
Faint praise may find a way.
Let him be publishéd
And damned is what I say.

[This message has been edited by Mike Todd (edited July 05, 2008).]