vain/glory amour/propre
Conceit: n 1: feelings of flamboyant pride [syn: egotism, narcissism, pretension, pride, self-love, self-worship, smugness] 2: the trait of being a complete bastard.
Yesterday I received in the mail a letter from The Academy of American Poets asking for money. I believe that is what you call irony. Yes, it turns out that I too could be part of this little old boy's club (well, not as a poet) if only I could give out, spend, afford it. Give out, indeed. I am giving out. Falling down. I, too, am exhausted from my poverty, from other's consumption.
This has nothing to do with having been raised on a healthy diet of being the last of the famous international playboys; last of the glamorous bright young things. After all, we have so many resources. I hope that perhaps the next poetry book Tupelo Press, Copper Canyon or Nupress releases will change the world, impact someone, somewhere … perhaps they will. Does it matter? Perhaps for a moment after 9/11 poets were timely, relevant, spoke about what was happening in this nation, this world. For a moment. Perhaps. Now this month's National Geographic shouts out: The Selling Of Alaska. Destruction of the Oceans. Unending Consumption. Where is our Lorax? Who speaks for the trees, for the trees have no tongues?
Here, Academy, I would send your letter back empty if I had 39 cents. Regardless, here is one more crack I will gladly fall through …
The odd thing about being poor is that the rich always seem to romanticize it. But they have health insurance and postmodernism and clubs that turn the rest of us away at the door.
Mnemosyne, about a week ago,
wandered out behind the clay breakwater
to build an elephantine whale. I know
you have all seen whales, sort of rubber
swimming joy, but Mnemosyne? Mother
of the Muses and Inventor of Words?
Think of a girl, but more so. Inventor
of words crafts into craft what the bastards
of this world destroy. We love to chase herds
off cliffs, net even the last, let clubs kill.
There might be magic in the seas, orchards,
valleys, but you will never know. I will
never know. To consume all, our human
gift. That's our gift, not words, but extinction.