BAD CHOICES

Reed. Born 1917 died 1985. Henry Reed.

No need

To prick your memory: Reed author of “Naming of Parts”.

Wonderful poem. Each line, remember? starts

With rifle drill, then runs into a flower —

Nature so lovely, Man (no big surprise) an evil power.

Anthologies anthologies succeed,

Each picking ditto ditto by Henry Reed.

Hand me — thank you — that new collection —

Here, look: “Naming of Parts” — again the editor’s “matured selection”.

The thing, you understand, is most deserving,

And yet to print nothing but this I find unnerving.

You’ll say, maybe our poet was delighted

To find his “Parts” so often reinvited.

I, however, see him tearing out his thinning hair,

Eyeing one more new collection with a baleful glare —

That poem again? I hate the sight of it.

My other verse — what is it? Tell me! Spit?

He banks his royalties — why not?

But wishes all anthologizers shot.

I grant I never knew the man; perhaps you disagree.

But now let’s talk about unhappy me,

Who’s less, much less, than Henry Reed.

No need

To prod your memory.

You never saw a line by me.

I’ve plagued my keyboard all in vain;

No couplet, triplet or quatrain

Of mine’s in any Book of Modern Verse.

That too, you will agree, is quite a curse.

I tear my thinning hair

(And that’s no guess — I vouch for it — I’m there);

From every pore that’s in my soul I bleed.

But bleed I more than Henry Reed?

Not so, I say. My “fate” (forgive the pompous word)

Strikes me as of lesser hurt.

The reason, my good friend — let me explain — is very —

“Stop! I’m smart. No explanation necessary.”