Critical Poetry, Etc.—David Ochs  (Santa Maria CA)                                              For more highly critical verse, see Critical Poems.    
 

I'm a physical therapist in a nursing home. My job mostly consists of taking old ladies on the verge of death for walks, and if they  can't I prop them up like in the movie, A week-end at Bernie's. Then I document in fancy therapist jargon so Medicare will pay the facility.  It does pay the bills. There's no money in poetry.

Notes from the Censored:  Rattled

A few months ago I read Tim Green’s (editor of Rattle poetry magazine) blog on Bukowski.  He watched a documentary, Born Into This, and dismissed Bukowski as a self-absorbed,  wife abusing, drunken degenerate and probably a racist.  He also said except for a few pieces his work wasn’t that good. 

            I responded to the blog, calling it a hatchet job.  I figured if we judged poets and artists on their personal lives we wouldn’t be able to like any of them.  I pointed out that no one discredited Amiri Baracka (formerly Leroi Jones) for punching his wife Hettie Jones.  Or for espousing his theory that Jewish workers in the World Trade Center knew of the 9/11 attacks beforehand and stayed home from work, leaving their co-workers to die.  I also mentioned that Tim Green’s favorite poet, Alan Ginsberg was a supporter of NAMBLA. 

            By then Tim’s cronies were in PC lockstep and a sock puppet named Sandee Lyles, posted a link to a clip of a drunken Bukowski kicking at his wife Linda while laying on a couch.   She presented this as concrete evidence of spousal abuse saying, “he kicked her in the stomach again and again.”  If you didn’t see the clip you’d think he caused internal damage.  I thought it was no more than a pathetic, drunken spat.  For example if you saw a frustrated woman in a parking lot swatting her child on the rear it’d be misleading to say she beat her child. 

            When Tim read my interpretation he went ballistic.   Calling me a “sick, ignorant, coward,” who didn’t understand the nuances of abuse.  He also said I was no longer welcome on his blog.  I sensed Tim was more upset by my comments about Ginsberg, but someone who supports NAMBLA is difficult to defend.  It was easier to accuse me of supporting spousal abuse. 

            At that point the gloves were off and Tim and his cronies wanted my head on a platter.  Megan, Tim’s PC soul mate chimed in and Sandee the Sock Puppet kept putting her two cents in.  Not to sound boastful but I was giving Tim and his disciples a verbal beat down and rather than lose face Tim deleted the later round of comments and banned me from the site.  The Rattler’s concluded it was ok to disagree but only if you do it in a constructive way, so the ban was justified.

            I thought poets were people capable of thinking in the abstract; seeing the different shades of the human condition and reserving judgment.   But the Rattle group are like the Salem villagers, where one person yells, witch, and they all gather up with their torches.   Ironically these types of group-think conformists are the type of people Bukowski skewered in his poetry. 

            Anyway since then Tim has posted guidelines for commentary-to be respectful and polite.  In other words if you disagree he’ll censor you.    

The Kid Strikes Out Again
I'd seen the kid at
the poetry reading before
he was ambitious
had his work
printed on a broadside
and handed them out
with his phone number
he asked for feedback
like he wanted you
to tell him of
his great potential genius
but they just
weren't that good

the time before when he’d read
he mentioned he’d written “in form”
taught to him by Dr. James Cushing
who teaches at the local university
the poor kid thought
Cushing was some kind of
mountain top poetry guru
and Cushing probably got
huge ego strokes
that the kid thought Cushing
could wave his magic wand
and turn him into the next Ginsberg
but the kid was so star struck
he didn't realize
how lousy and unreadable
Cushing’s poems are

the kid read all serious
but no one paid attention

Worthless

It’s as useless as tits on a boar

It’s like a rich man

winning the lottery

It’s like kissing your sister

It’s like winning at losing

It’s like swimming against the tide

It’s like getting your cancer cured

only to die of a heart attack

It’s like the big fish

that got away

It’s like winning every round

and getting knocked out

It’s like your brand new car

breaking down

It’s like seducing Miss America

and being impotent

It’s like being a genius

that can’t tie his own shoelaces

It’s like drowning with

a suitcase full of money

It’s like all the melted ice-cream

in the world

It’s like putting on a virtuoso performance

with no audience

It’s like finding Christ

when he’s fresh out of miracles

It’s like stale potato chips

It’s like a poem

that doesn’t say anything

The Spam Princess of Poetry

I just read another

Lyn Lifshin poem

in a tiny pamphlet

of a magazine

with a small circulation

it was an average Lifshin poem

who writes nothing but

average poems

I've come across Lifshin's bio.

(it's hard not to)

she's won all kinds of awards

and has something like

seven volumes of poetry published

not chapbooks but full length

you'd figure a poet

of her stature

would leave the little, littles

to the beginners

who've never been in print

but like an aging starlet

who'll drive twelve hours

to attend an obscure awards show

she can't help herself

nor can the tiny pamphlet editor

who thinks the average Lifshin poem

will give his magazine prestige

Lyn Lifshin is

a vicious cycle.