In which my conversation doesn't always rhyme

Wanna be a poet laureate? Sure! We all do!

I always thought being named poet laureate was something of an achievement, like winning a Nobel Peace Prize. However, yesterday's paper, which I just got around to reading, contains an article that makes becoming poet laureate seem easier than getting a speeding ticket, and a lot more fun, too.

I didn't even know this town had a poet laureate. Apparently there was one, several years ago, but owing to inconsistencies in the job description, he performed his duties while living in Cambodia. The article doesn't explain how; maybe he phoned in his poems, or inscribed them on coconuts and hurled them into the sea, or something, trusting them to get here. Anyway, that guy is apparently no longer the official town poet, so we needed a new one. Personally, I think it's an excellent idea, one that will bring the town "together" at this difficult time of mourning the loss of a great and beloved man (Johnnie Cochran, I mean).

So, the new guy is 74 years old, and the poem the newspaper chose to print as an example of his qualifications as town poet, concerns the sense of timelessness the writer experienced while watching a lizard breathe. This makes me believe that it cannot be too difficult to become town poet. Apparently, it doesn't matter where you live, and you can write just about anything. I'm going to go for it next year, try to knock this guy off his throne. You should, too, if only because it pays a yearly stipend of $1,000.

Here are a few guidelines on how to become poet laureate of a largely irrelevant Southern California beach town:

Write a bunch of poems off the top of your head concerning the following concepts:

  1. Living in Paradise yet being aware of the homeless problem (possible name for this poem: "WHY");

  2. Timelessness of ocean waves;

  3. Palm tree fronds swaying / university students in ruffly mini-skirts (compare, contrast);

  4. Sunset over the ocean, with its timeless waves;

  5. Timeless mountains looming over the ocean (also timeless);

  6. Remembering a time when downtown wasn't filled with chain stores (this is a "wistful" poem, where you can also wryly contemplate your own passing youth);

  7. Imaginary ghosts wandering around the Mission, tending to the actual, real rose bushes that you came to see. The ghosts can be like, the spirits of imaginary Indians or else monks, but they should be shadowy and move on air like the wind, regardless. Also, they should impart wisdom, which will then be revealed as something you knew all along yet had forgotten;

  8. Homelessness, and why it is wrong.

  9. That joyful old couple you saw sitting on a bench, laughing together and holding balloons;

  10. A ladybug you saw sitting on a bougainvillea leaf, and how it reminds you simultaneously of a fragile elderly retiree and a homeless child. Maybe work in the word "disenfranchised" if it doesn't fuck with the meter too badly.

Is this giving you sufficient inspiration? If not, please let me know, and I'll look out the window for other subjects. It's pretty much what I've been doing all day, anyway.

I would like to close on this note, which is a favorite bit of poetry remembered from my childhood:

[a-hem]

I love myself. I think I'm grand.
When I go to the movies, I hold my hand.
I put my arm around my waist,
And when I get fresh, I slap my face.

XOXOX Violet! 2 cool 2 B 4-got-10



Star of the day. . .Rick Springfield
posted @ 3:33 p.m. on April 07, 2005 before | after

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She lay awake all night,

zzzzzzzzzzz......