Guest poem sent in by Howard Weinberg
(Poem #1368) Dream Song 14
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored means you have no Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature, Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as Achilles, who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind: me, wag.
There are many things to love about this poem-- here are a few. The wonderful turn of "we ourselves flash and yearn". The great pun at the end. The way the poem aspire to both irony and kindness, without ever choosing sides. How daring to say "life, friends, is boring", to make it stick, to be a poet, for crying out loud, and still make it stick. And yet to undercut itself with "as bad as Achilles" knowing only someone who loves literature could be so shocked not to find rewards in it-- and so we know that there is some deeper underlying tragedy, perhaps as fully formed as the Illiad, yet otherwise unspoken. Howard Weinberg