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Monday, April 08, 2019

Glopowrimo 8

© Koshy AV


Glopowrimo 8 - A Roundelay 
"8th April
Our prompt for the day (optional, as always), is inspired by Smith’s poem. You may have noted that the central metaphor of “Good Bones” turns on a phrase used by real estate agents. Today, I’d like to challenge you to think about the argot of a particular job or profession, and see how you can incorporate it into a metaphor that governs or drives your poem. This rather astonishing list of professional slang terms might help you get into the mood. Or, if you work a white-collar job, perhaps you can take inspiration from one of the business jargon phrases that seem to predominate in corporate environments (leveraging diverse synergies, anyone?)"
When people keep on asking me, with no vision
What, oh what, is your profession?
I lose my vaunted  gifts of elocution
Teaching is my profession
I pretend I am also good at seduction
But poetry, ah, poetry; has been my life-long passion!
Recently, I went to a rhyming, rhythmic, rocking, rolling poetry festival
A lady was much enthused by causes, and went on reading
Her poetry as if she was the only rider on the roller-coaster at some carnival
Her bosom heaved with all that emotional upheaval
I being a 100 percent, hot-blooded, repressed, suppressed, middle-aged, Indian male got lost in that commotion
A gent was sitting there 'sinisterlily' surveying the hall
You could see that he was a critic and having a secret, damned ball
Which one is in the canon? Which one has no cannon?
He kept on thinking, while I watched him decide who to make great, and who to make fall.
There were publishers and (sub-) editors and copies of copy-editors
There were proof-readers and journalists and would be's and wannabes
Some spoke of God and being and some spoke of dogs and peeing
Never a dull moment, yes, but was it poetry that I was hearing?
Poets, poets, everywhere, nor any verse to choose
Who all were writing iambs, or rhymes, or hemistitches, in twos,
Who all were counting syllables and who all waiting, impatient to go to the loo
Poets, poets, everywhere, all fancy free, footloose!
I began to feel dizzy at this profusion of poetry
To calm myself I chanted to myself the names of some poetic forms
Sonnet, nonet, haiku, haigu, ghazal, 'falafel':  then shifted to names of stanzas:
Couplet, triplet, quadruplet; no, these were of giving birth, the qualms
Nobel, Pulitzer, Booker, I tried to shift my tack
Jnanpith, Sahitya Akademi, I added to make up the slack
Shifting then to keep calm, Penguin, Pelican
Peregrine and Bloomsbury, Harpic, Hatchet, I dead-panned
Having run out of things to do, when they asked me for a reading
I looked at my mobile, chagrined; it had run out of 'beading'
Meaning its battery had died, so I stood there with a hollow, sinking feeling
As if cold water was sloshing around my legs, and in its iciness I was standing
Then gathering my courage in both my hands, I started thinking
Screw the canon, publishers, awards, editors and all who were pretending
I am a real poet, and can 'in an instant,' start leading
So after taking a deep breath and my heart from my mouth down-pushing
(Like Pushpa might have before her speech in Ezekiel's mind living)
I started on a glorious note, and began my composing
On my profession's argot, saying, "When people keep on asking..."
© Koshy AV

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