kocane (kocane) wrote,

My coffee is pretty hot. And black, I suppose.

It struck me recently that poetry is a dead art. I don't mean it's completely impossible to find the odd nuanced verse, but, typically, the painfully banal pieces that are held aloft as superlative by the apostles of "high art" these days can only be classified as utter dreck.

To Whit:

I am the last Napoleonic soldier. It's almost two hundred years later and I am still retreating from Moscow. The road is lined with white birch trees and the mud comes up to my knees. The one-eyed woman wants to sell me a chicken, and I don't even have any clothes on.

The Germans are going one way; I am going the other. The Russians are going still another way and waving good-by. I have a ceremonial saber. I use it to cut my hair, which is four feet long.

This is a so-called "prose poem" by current Poet Laureate Charles Simic.

I found the above link via Aaron Haspel's always fascinating "God of the Machine" blog. Make sure to visit and read his own version of a Simic "poem" - "Holiday in North Florida". The idea of satirical mimesis of this subject amuses me and I may construct a "Simic" of my own in short order (beyond the title of this post, of course).

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