I might have put this up for critique earlier - here it is again. What I need to know is this:
Am I just blathering - putting my prose into poetry, or do I have a real poem here?
Cantos in Second
i
Days have passed since
that afternoon when your
pen flowed rivers onto
the pages of your notebook.
Files have been made in your
directory and a couple of stories
have even reached the 'outline stage'.
ii
You're not blocked at all - in fact you
still can't put that alien woman behind
the fence of a secret government
compound from your mind. It's almost
as if she invented her own persona
and placed herself in the story.
You know where you're going with
it - you even know how the story ends
and the surprise you have waiting for your reader.
There's just one thing wrong. You don't seem
to be able to get on with it.
iii
It's Saturday afternoon and the 13th has
missed its mark again. You feel so good
that you go the nine yards and take
the street car all the way out to Parliament.
It's a tribute to a famous Toronto poet
you knew in your last life - you don't
know why it's a tribute - no one actually
tells you that the man died, but you go;
if he's there in the flesh you can say
'Hey glad to see you'.
If he has passed on to poet's heaven,
you can make the appropriate noises
and check out the punch line.
You liked him - he was a nice fella
who encouraged you to write once
but you have to admit not taking
much interest in what is known
as 'the poetry scene' in years of late.
iv
When the car stops at Pigeon Park
where all those winos you also knew
in your last life used to sleep
on Sunday afternoons, you get off.
You cross the road and enter the library.
There's the same old room where they used
to have the readings, and there are scads
of people standing around drinking coffee
and looking at everybody's chap books.
You think about getting your own out
of your bag but yours are filled with poems
you no longer believe in, so you leave them be.
You are relieved to see that everybody
else has grown old too. Now, there's
Old Specs, loftily talking down his nose
at some sweet young thing who will be
more than pleased to pay him 10 bucks
a session to be terrorized and sent home
to wonder why she ever thought she could write.
You're here now.
Might as well fall into it.
v
You do seem to have the way of it; ever since
you can remember, you have managed to get
into major excrement merely by standing there
with your bloody face hanging out.
If you want to face the truth you'll admit it; there's
times you should just stay on your own hearth
and don't let your nose follow the scents of other fires.
So, you're nervous; on with it, poet, on with it.
vi
Heading home on the 505, you think of the afternoon
past. Chock full of dainty pastries, potato salad
and fruit of the latest loom - you only drank a wee
bit, didn't you?
You feel something scratch your chin as you peer
down at the chapbook you bought from whatever
his name is and realize you are still wearing the ticket
that says 'I survived the Death of the Rhinocerous
Party." You look around quickly, hoping there's
no one you know on the streetcar.
vii
You think of that bloody witch and how you love
her just as much as never. You think of how
she came gushing over to your table
to greet you just because you happened
to be sitting with one of the Success Stories.
You think of that Italian poet and what a waste
the Priesthood is. You think of the poetry
you read when asked to take the stand.
You think of the first public reading you ever
did in your life and how Ms. Flash Gordon
from the Ward 9 News later wrote that your
poetry reeked of suicide.
And you thought the fuckin' internet was treacherous.
No - you're not blocked - you're just bidin' time.
Just bidin' time on the five-o-five.
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