Man Writes Poem

This little bit of whimsey tickled the hell out of me. I hope you enjoy it:

Poem: "Man Writes Poem" by Jay Leeming, from Dynamite on a China Plate.© The Backwaters Press. Reprinted with permission.

Man Writes Poem

This just in a man has begun writing a poem
in a small room in Brooklyn. His curtains
are apparently blowing in the breeze. We go now
to our man Harry on the scene, what's

the story down there Harry? "Well Chuck
he has begun the second stanza and seems
to be doing fine, he's using a blue pen, most
poets these days use blue or black ink so blue

is a fine choice. His curtains are indeed blowing
in a breeze of some kind and what's more his radiator
is 'whistling' somewhat. No metaphors have been written yet,
but I'm sure he's rummaging around down there

in the tin cans of his soul and will turn up something
for us soon. Hang on—just breaking news here Chuck,
there are 'birds singing' outside his window, and a car
with a bad muffler has just gone by. Yes ... definitely

a confirmation on the singing birds." Excuse me Harry
but the poem seems to be taking on a very auditory quality
at this point wouldn't you say? "Yes Chuck, you're right,
but after years of experience I would hesitate to predict

exactly where this poem is going to go. Why I remember
being on the scene with Frost in '47, and with Stevens in '53,
and if there's one thing about poems these days it's that
hang on, something's happening here, he's just compared the curtains

to his mother, and he's described the radiator as 'Roaring deep
with the red walrus of History.' Now that's a key line,
especially appearing here, somewhat late in the poem,
when all of the similes are about to go home. In fact he seems

a bit knocked out with the effort of writing that line,
and who wouldn't be? Looks like ... yes, he's put down his pen
and has gone to brush his teeth. Back to you Chuck." Well
thanks Harry. Wow, the life of the artist. That's it for now,

but we'll keep you informed of more details as they arise.



And to think that most of we poets think of our writing as a "gift", something unique, that makes us special, different. Wait a minute, I hear eagles out my window here at the office on American Lake, a nesting pair, and the wind is whipping the fir trees something fierce, and one limb is thumping on the tile roof of our building, and a squirrel is chatterig and scolding something, and crows are complaining about the eagles, and the radiator here is popping, and these keys on the keyboard are humming and making odd clicking noises as my old fingers find a way to share, to delight, to challenge, and cajole others.

Glenn