HERE ARE TWO OR MORE POEMS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE --

PENGUINS by Troy Jollimore

They've been handing out pamphlets in Leicester Square
(for 'Leicester' read 'Worcester')
ever since our latest victory
(for 'victory' read 'disaster')

and all the penguins in Worcester Square
(for 'penguins' read 'pigeons')
have, like dodos, forgotten how to fly
(for 'fly' read 'do long division')

and are flocking around the annoyed Admiral
(read 'Trafalgar' for 'Worcester')
like a mob of highly incensed cassowaries*
(for 'cassowaries' read 'roosters').

Meanwhile, in the bay, the pilot boats
(for 'pilot' read 'pirate')
lull, bob and circle in the lazy tide
(for 'circle' read 'gyrate.')

And you, according to recent reports
(for 'Trafalgar' read 'Red')
may or may not have been recently seen
(for 'pamphlets' read 'bread')

in the presence of a certain shadowy figure
(for 'figure' read 'redhead')
who's been well known to hatch a few plots of her own
(and for 'presence' read 'bed')

like a dame straight out of Raymond Chandler.
(But for 'Chandler' read 'Carver').
Meanwhile, those penguins are mobbing Red Square
(but for 'Red' read 'Harvard')

and have rearranged so as to form
(for 'rearranged' read 'reappeared')
a message visible from the sky
(and for 'meanwhile,' read 'as we feared.')

And don't you think, comrade (for 'comrade' read 'friend')
(and for 'Harvard' read 'Tiananmen')
that all plots, all poems, all struggles must end?
(And for 'end' — if you would — read, 'begin again.')

* The cassowary is a very large flightless bird native to the tropical forests of New Guinea, nearby islands and northeastern Australia.

Jollimore teaches philosophy at Cal State – Chico. His first book of poetry, Tom Thomson in Purgatory, won the 2006 National Book Critics Circle Award.

Two or more poems indeed! And well cast, even down to the visual basics of the lines/stanzas matching the halt-swagger that such as the avuspenqueonatus afforded, and the clipped-wing syndrome that reenforces the 'forgotten how to fly' assessment. I think that the visual to any poem offers some aspects of enjoyment and pause that cannot be found in any of the rest of a poem's wherewithal. I am not, though I think that maby I should be, a fan of poems being wrought of colored inks/papers, or overtly cast in shapes, but do feel that how a poem 'looks' is meaningful in itself.

Do not have the time to be even reasonable thorough with this post, so I will just dove-tail part of the poem's opening line with its final stanza, as I think that doing so can effect a sort of precis about what the poem is 'about'.

"They've been handing out pamplets" / "that all plots, all poems, all struggles must end?" The mixed sentience of "They" is born out as a serial of linguistic tracks filled variously with eggs past, eggs present, and the stalled Scrooge-wise of what may hatchen next - wish I had the time to flesh-out that claim, but must leave it to you other readers to make your own case in this.

"Pamplets" to the end of 'plots, poems, struggles; one senses a huge potential truth to all this, one that is not dependent on the prior dynamics that these items snagged into their panchronic fore, a truth that could well make of us the black hole of resignation about the human status in the scheme of things. As one absurdist put it, "life is not absurd, but very, very difficult". This poem suggests that brand of reality very well. "Pamplets" are reductive peckings with some agenda in the offing, or some balance/over-balance to either provolk or settle some argument, to amend (dis- or re) some other humanate along its natural, occulted, or happenstance way. "Pamplets" are the first and last refuge that evolk the minimalist to whatever is in question: in this the status and regard of poetry is put in danger. Poetry is eclectic anyway, a hard-sell, but very beloved, and worth all preservation. The generic forces about us in this world are a threat to that preservation.

Outta time.

Best to all, and Carpe Verve.

This poem is very entertaining. It stretches for rhymes: disaster and roosters and pirate and gyrate are funny. How many recombinations are available? It makes me consider taking sanctuary in a casserole - or Venetian statuary singing a barcarolle - or Bruce Cockburn singing "If I had a Barcalounger" - or the danger of content becoming interchangeable within structure. Victory and Disaster take the same font, over my coffee and/or codebook, but I don't want to spoil the fun. On a poetical front, accepting structure provides such opportunity for subtlety. Meanwhile...well, you know what I mean by that, Comrade.

They've been handing out bread in Tiananmen Square
ever since our latest disaster

and all the pigeons in Tiananmen Square
have, like dodos, forgotten how to do long division

and are flocking around the annoyed Admiral
like a mob of highly incensed roosters.

As we feared, in the bay, the pirate boats
lull, bob and gyrate in the lazy tide

And you, according to recent reports
may or may not have been recently seen

in the bed of a certain shadowy redhead
who's been well known to hatch a few plots of her own

like a dame straight out of Raymond Carver.
As we feared, those pigeons are mobbing Tiananmen Square

and have reappeared so as to form
a message visible from the sky

And don't you think, friend
that all plots, all poems, all struggles must begin again?

Someone was bound to do it
(insert You for Someone)
and I thought of doing it myself but refrained
(replace refrained with fought my own compulsion with success)
and now I see (read that as think) that the editor
(now poet) is his own worst enemy along with you
(and you should be the reader).

It is really a magical piece for me
(where magical means delightful, thought-provoking, hilarious
all at once), a wonderful treatise on the power of words
as well as, perhaps, a snipe at critics!

(Please replace every word that starts with the letter s with the word I
with the exception of the words snipe and starts).

Take care,

Joe

Ha! Yes, I could not help but to do the inevitable. Your response is far more clever than my edit and the original poem is even more so. Very enjoyable.

What's great about this is that it plays with the idea that a poem can mean many things - that each reader really can make their own poem out of a do-it-yourself kit, and then start over.

i work with a mob of highly incensed cassowaries every day. (roosters is an adequate exchange. large and flightless are suitable descriptions.) i've expended all of this season's reserve of diplomacy and i'm well into the winter's store.

would it be all right if i just sat here a while and just smiled at this poem? and smiled at you all?

monica

Even the poet's name is perfect (for Jollimore, read Sadless). What a clever, rollicking piece.

Sorry it’s taken me so long to respond, but I’ve been busy boning up on English history for my religion + poetry class.

Jollimore’s “Penguins” has intrigued me with its cleverness for a couple of years. But I could never decide whether it was merely clever or had a more significant meaning. Like Bratsche, I tried focusing on the last stanza --

And don't you think, comrade (for 'comrade' read 'friend')
(and for 'Harvard' read 'Tiananmen')
that all plots, all poems, all struggles must end?
(And for 'end' — if you would — read, 'begin again.')

One version might be

And don’t you think, friend,
that all plots, all poems, all struggles must begin again?

Sort of along those lines, I know I understand a good poem differently every time I read it.

But I also like falcon’s idea “that it plays with the idea that a poem can mean many things - that each reader really can make their own poem out of a do-it-yourself kit, and then start over.” (and thanx for pointing out the great rhymes)

However, considering that Jollimore is a philosopher prof, he might be pointing out that reality – in this case, a poem – is different for each of us. Some might see a poem as a political statement (pamphlets in Leicester or Harvard or Tiananmen Square. Depending on their disposition, some may see disaster where others see victory. Literary types might be reminded of Raymond Chandler or Raymond Carver, depending on which writer they prefer.

Maybe this cannot be avoided; maybe it can. Considering that the poem was included in Jollimore’s recent chapbook, The Solipsist, maybe he is mocking those who insist on inserting themselves into someone else’s poems.

Or all of the above. (For “Or all of the above” read “I’m glad so many people enjoyed this poem.”) And thanks to Busta G and Joe Soccerfreak for their poems, to waltz n capsize for taking time from her busy new job to post, to island time for doing a riff on the word “jollimore.”

Here’s another of his poems –

THE SOLIPSIST by Troy Jollimore

Don't be misled:
that sea-song you hear
when the shell's at your ear?
It's all in your head.

That primordial tide —
the slurp and salt-slosh
of the brain's briny wash —
is on the inside.

Truth be told, the whole place,
everything that the eye
can take in, to the sky
and beyond into space,

lives inside of your skull.
When you set your sad head
down on Procrustes' bed,
you lay down the whole

universe. You recline
on the pillow: the cosmos
grows dim. The soft ghost
in the squishy machine,

which the world is, retires.
Someday it will expire.
Then all will go silent
and dark. For the moment,

however, the black-
ness is just temporary.
The planet you carry
will shortly swing back

from the far nether regions.
And life will continue —
but only within you.
Which raises a question

that comes up again and again,
as to why
God would make ear and eye
to face outward, not in?

No, MaryAnn, thank you! I find over and over again, with no slight to R. Pinsky, to be sure, that the Thursday OPP is really where the choice stuff is. That is a matter for further study, perhaps.

In the meantime, I mentioned in my 'poem' (and it was most generous of you to refer to it as such) near the end that I considered the poem to be about both the power of the word and a snipe at critics, which, I think, is in agreement with your own final supposition, provided you replace critics with those who insist on inserting themselves into someone else's poems.

Regardless, I find the second offering, The Solipsist, to be captivating as well, particularly, for whatever reason, the attention-getting ending.

As with the first, there is both discipline and whimsy here, an admixture of tragedy and comedy, the pathos of (unwarranted?) hope in combine with the frolic of a sincere sense of humor.

A cantankerous reviewer might argue that the first of these poems requires so much work of the poet that it shows. I happen to admire the mental gymnastics involved and note without shame that my own humble attempt to imitate failed miserably.

The second, The Solipsist, strikes me as akin to rolling thunderheads: it seems to build from a simple notion about listening for the ocean in seashells, builds and builds into the final verse, a nearly zen-like plaint, and a powerful conclusion.

It is tempting to suggest that the first of these is more complex than the second, but while the first does require a degree of dexterity from both the writer and the reader, the second, I think, demands more of both eventually.

I like this guy's work and will be looking for more of it.

Take care,

Joe

I wrote this poem prior to reading Jollimore's The Solipsist, but find some compelling connections, the first of which is the beach scene, the second which is the wrestling with meaning, and so I submit it here, within the recesses, so to speak, knowing that mine is not up to the task but wondering nonetheless if mine is an accidental answer to his or vice versa.

Take care,

Joe

Cathedral

Shaking infinity from her hair,
dew from blinking eyes,
dreams of night from waking sight
and casting them aside, she saw beyond
the gravity and orbit
of the planets and the stars,
electrons, quarks, wheels and dark,
and in the speed from restless sleep
to quantum leap,

she saw within,
and saw.