The poet who drowned in a quandary

What Happened to Butzville, New Jersey

There's an ancient quandary on the edge of our town
Where they used to mine shocks and dismay;
Now the youngsters go to the pit and climb down
To swim in the water and play.

We have an event called the big city haul
and each year when I was a kid,
the peepholes who didn't have joy in their lives
would defer to the peepholes who did.

So for one amusing day in the spring
the Didn'ts gave in to the Dids.
Which led to the most miraculous fling:
Morality went on the skids.

And all of the folks who didn't use theirs
And who worried what I did with mine
Became suddenly, blazingly, fully aware
of the pleasures of smoking and wine.

Then all of the prophets of hurtue and right
Who worry 'bout sloth and decay
were proven incontrovertibly right
by the revel we live at today.

That led to the brewage treatment plant
Where they brew our municipal ale
and a fellow named Wood and another called Kant
stay locked in the town's only jail.

There's a puzzle of land near the muddle of town
Where we all used to gather and pray
Now the elders bring wine and sit themselves down
And laugh at the end of the day.

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Poems I'll Probably Never Write

There's a strong chance that I will never write
"Elegy for a Son-of-a-Bitch"
As much as I love the title,
I don't want to come to the end of a poem
And say that the ground is now worse off and us the better
For somebody's passing.
Too gloomy, too New Yorker.

Also don't look for the early appearance of
"You Did Me Wrong, You Lousy Twat"
For in spite of its metrical felicity,
And the possible royalties from a country-music rendition,
the feeling involved is one that pretty much vanishes
on the closer inspection that I like to find in poems.
And who did wrong to whom gets a bit too fuzzy
and doesn't scan.

The light of day will probably never shine
On a poem of mine entitled
"I Would Have Liked You More If You Were Prettier"
Even though the possibilities for rhyme are intriguing
(grittier, shittier, John Greenleaf Whittier).
Because it stings to imagine all the people who
Might have written that poem about me.

The same thinking applies to
"I Should Have Killed You When I Had the Chance,"
"Frankly, It Was All About Sex,"
"You Have No Idea How Stupid You Looked That Day" and
"I Only Did It Because It Was Raining."
I fear, although I can't imagine the particulars of,
Possibilities for deeply hurtful poetic criticism.

Maybe in the poet's heart
There always lurks a suspicion
That poems are reflections and penetration—
Dressed-up self-invasions,
Infections, vaccinations;
Bank shots that, spoken with a little right English
Come back to rest on your own personal cue tip.

And so, instead of all these poems that I'll never write,
Let me get back to work on
"A Song of Love and Forgiveness" and
"Ode to a Rich and Well-Loved Man" and,
While I'm at it, I'll put the finishing touches on
"A Happy Life, Part Two."

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poets whom everyone admires

poets whom everyone admires
strike sparks from clouds for tear-fueled fires
or conjure roses that radiate
to Creation's end and thorny Fate.

poets who land the cushy posts
write pale as anorexic ghosts
and dazzle tiny, pinched-lipped crowds
with meaning well encased in shrouds.

alas for me and my little claque
we haven't got that wit or knack.
we've only verse that's plain and clear
and sounds just right with wine or beer.

it will never really get us far
just the corner stool at Shavely's Bar
(or if we really do it right,
McMenamin's on a Monday night).

It'll never get us far we know
But then, there isn't far to go
when you can tickle space and time
with a glass of beer and a foamy rhyme.♦


To read a response, click here.
To read another poem by Lynn Hoffman, click here.