Postcards from the Imagination

Small talk with the receptionist today ended in poetry. We were noticing how ridiculously fresh the poinsettias in the lobby still are. We talked about how they should really be replaced with spring flowers. We talked about daffodils and Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud." Then all of the sudden she busted out John Greenleaf Whittier's "Barbara Frietchie" from memory in its entirety! She said she'd learned it elementary school more than fifty years ago. And damn if didn't sound absolutely lovely the way she recited it. I can't say Whittier usually does anything at all for me, but when you've been staring at an Excel spreadsheet all day, rhyme is most welcome.

Of course, afterward, I could just about hear some sour-smelling formalist opine, "They don't write 'em like that anymore. That's why your average reader turned his back on poetry!" But isn't the real difference obvious? It's not about rhyme or meter or 'accessibility.' It's about the fact that poets like Whittier merely told their audience what they wanted to hear about themselves. You could teach him to fourth graders, because there was nothing subversive about his verse. Rather, he half constructed and half affirmed America's myths about itself.

Oh, the average reader could understand contemporary poetry just fine if didn't upset the narrative of his life. The average reader would embrace poetry if we'd all learn to *wink* and *nudge* and assure him we're just kidding once in a while. Right, Mr. Collins? The average reader might take us into her lap more often if only we'd abandon our preoccupation with reality and start serving up a little more spiritual tidiness. Right, Ms. Oliver?

Another co-worker, noticing me reading a book of poems while I was covering the reception desk, fetched from his own desk a German-English edition of Pieces of Intelligence: The Existential Poetry of Donald H. Rumsfeld, which was effing hilarious if you enjoy laughing to avoid screaming.