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POEMS ABOUT POETS VIII

PROFESSOR POETS

These are poems about professor poets and other wanna-be “intellectuals” who miss the main point of real poetry, which is to connect with readers via pleasing sounds and the communication of emotion as well as meaning.

Professor Poets
by Michael R. Burch 
 
Professor poets remind me of drones
chasing the Classical queen's aging bones.
With bottle-thick glasses they still see to write —
droning on, endlessly buzzing all night.
And still in our classrooms their tomes are decreed ...
Perhaps they're too busy with buzzing to breed?

Come Down
by Michael R. Burch

for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists

Come down, O, come down
from your high mountain tower.
How coldly the wind blows,
how late this chill hour ...
and I cannot wait
for a meteor shower
to show you the time
must be now, or not ever.

Come down, O, come down
from the high mountain heather
blown, brittle and brown,
as fierce northern gales sever.
Come down, or your heart
will grow cold as the weather
when winter devours
and spring returns never.


Rant: The Elite
by Michael R. Burch

When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say:
"Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art." ...
I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart,
isn’t this who *we* are? Aren’t we obviously *better*,
and certainly *fairer* and *taller*, than *they* are?

Though once I found Ezra Pound
perhaps a smidgen too profound,
perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito
and the advantages of fascism
to be taken *ad finem*, like high tea
with a pure white spot of intellectualism
and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free.

I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art
And it tempts us so to be *elite*, to stand apart ...
but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true,
echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you.

Of course, politics has nothing to do with art,
but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite,
with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet
someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to fart
so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet.

"*You had to be there! We were falling apart
with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!"

Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air,
gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair.

Keywords/Tags: poets, professor, professors, professor poets, class, classrooms, intellectual, intellectuals, elite, elites, drone, drones, poems, poets, poetry
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