METAPOETICS II/VI
by Will de Kypia


For E.A.P.

Spontaneous Generation?

No one knows where a poem comes from.
—Philip Levine, PBS News Hour
August 10, 2011

Do you know where a poem
comes from? Me neither.

I know where babies come from.
How they're made is notorious while
a poem's origin is more mysterious.

I am a poet, a working poet.
Most of my poems simply
drop in unannounced.

They generally drop in just
once but there have been a
few unsettling exceptions.

I'll wake up, roll out of bed,
and head towards the kitchen
to brew me a pot of coffee.

Bumbling downstairs, I reach my man
cave, the private retreat and personal
scriptorium nobody is allowed to enter.

Nobody except me.

The cave door is open wide,
scraps of paper litter my lair.

Poems cover the desk and the chair, the
bookcase, the mini-fridge and the wine rack.

Words, lines, stanzas, whole pages glare at me
before I have enjoyed a single sip of java.

The poems are typical specimens
of the worst sort of pretentiously
cryptic pseudo-intellectual posturing.

Glaring back at the intruders I snarl—

"Who are you? Why are here?
How the hell did you get in?"

I'm a caffeine fiend, far from
clearheaded and not fit for company
until I've had my daily fix of it.

An unprepossessing member of
this unimpressive gaggle of uninvited
visitors makes an unexpected retort—

"Apparently Daddy has forgotten his kids!
We are poems you yourself wrote, then
calmly, no, then callously rejected.

On a magical day not too long ago
you created us, and we merrily dwelt in
your garden of verses a season or two.

On a terrible, tragical day you grew
tired of your flower children, ejected us,
and didn't bother to tell us the reason!

How could anyone—especially a poet—
mistreat his own children that way?

We are truly angry about being evicted.

We are angrier still because we don't
seem to merit even a modest mention
in your long and boastful résumé.

It is time q forgetful father and his
pissed off progeny were reconnected.

Oh, and we got in here Saint Nick
style by sliding down the chimney,

However, rather than bearing
gifts for you we are demanding
compensation for ourselves.

We'll decide what we want
after we scrutinize your abode
to inventory its contents.

In the meantime, you should
offer us a taste of coffee at least, you
brutal offspring abusing beast!

We're caffeine junkies
like our daddy is."

They start to roam around the cave,
peering at the bottles and the books,
the inexpensive artwork, my seldom
used secondhand home gym set.

I have no recollection of these
hapless dregs of the art of poesy
and hate to think they are mine.

Responding to them politely
(though not exactly forthrightly)
I carefully enumerate three points:

"First, there is no coffee.
Second, I am not your daddy.
Third, you slid the wrong chimney.
🏠
If you provide a street number
I will direct you to the right one."

Instead of answering they leer like
they're pondering filing a paternity suit
to force me to take a DNA test.

We working poets are usually
scrabblers or scroungers
so no way I can afford
to hire a lawyer.

I must somehow distract
these deplorable discards till I
am able to dump them again.

"Whoever you are, I'm glad
you're here for we play the same
game, i.e., the poetry game.

Perhaps you youngsters can
help me finish a poem I have been
working on for aeons of ages.

I'm trying to compose an ending
that is both witty and wise and also
appealing to cute poetical chicks.
🐥
The poem I request advice on
is this very one we are currently
in so do please try to be quick."

The interlopers ignore me as they
continue to investigate my sanctum.

Appraising my stuff, figuring out
how much they'll require to settle
the bogus lawsuit they intend to
lodge against their father, me.

They'll learn you can't extract
blood from a stone, a turnip, or a
perennially impecunious poet.

The actual name of the game we
rhymesters play is the poverty game
and all of us knuckleheads know it.

I could use a double espresso right now
to collect my wits and hopefully avoid being
caught up in an awkward authorship row.

Regular folk will probably forgive me for
siring all these caterwauling cacophonies.

The lords and the ladies of the literary world
will not. They'll declare me the perpetrator
of multitudinous inexcusable poetasteries.

A repellent repeat felon, I will be forever
anathema to those cute poetical chicks.

💊💊💊💊💊💊

Suddenly I remember the pep pills
stashed in the pocket of my robe.

I pop one, I pop two, I pop quite a few.
Espresso in a pill is an irresistible thrill.

My groggy sleep-addled brain unaddles,
assesses this doggerel invasion situation,
devises a slick trick for their deportation.

With well-concealed scorn I address
the jerks who assert they are my works
and thereby claim a right to my name:

"My precious darlings, it's true, there
are oodles of things I have forgotten!

For a moment I kinda spaced out.
Your poor old papa's fading memory
is nothing for him to brag about."

They are pathetic, opuscular fools
so without one smidgeon of shame I
loudly and faux-proudly proclaim

"But I can and I do brag about
you, the absolutely incomparable
word sprouts I have begotten!

You kids are utterly amazing.
Topical, lyrical, replete with deep
speculations philosophical.

Do you ever hanker
to be megastars blazing
across the cybersky?"

My skeptical children warily reply
"Indeed, to blaze we do hanker."

"May I bring you to a lit biz
honcho I happen to know who will
agree you are splendiferous?"

My egotistical children merrily cry
"Yes, to him you may bring us!"

"He's a mighty media mogul who can
catapult you into the cultural pantheon
by posting you on his trendy website.

This gentleman is always searching
for hidden treasures so he would
love to be introduced to you."

Seduced by my spiel they all exclaim
"We do ache to attain great acclaim!"

The Verba Volant website will publish
them since the owner's a greedhead
who measures treasures in moolah.
💸
His selection process is what the
music biz used to term payola.

Guess I'll have to spend this
weekend at my regular side hustle
as a part-time rideshare driver.

We hop into my beat-up junker
too tatty for Uber and therefore
perfect for archrival Unter.

I negotiate a favorable spot for my
poems in the upcoming online issue, wish
them and their publisher good luck.

Heading home, I savor a latte at
Starbucks and then return refueled
to my newly pest-purged haven.

There I brood over the odds
of a fresh growth of word weeds
infesting my garden of verses.

Did my poems spill their seed
to spawn a bumper crop of blather
on the shag rug in the foyer?

Lay a nestful of their eggs in
the hall closet’s gloomiest corner?

Or leave a gazillion spores to
sprout from the humongous heap of
dirty laundry in the basement?

No, I needn't worry for my
poems were never so clever.

🍷
I go to my man cave, pour me a
glass, and begin to write. I scribble
throughout the day, long into the night.

🕒
It is almost the witching hour when I
crawl back to bed where I remind myself
once more that I ought to be brewing
the morning joe on the night before.

Some day soon I hope to find a
beautiful poem I am proud to call
mine dropping in unannounced.


We'll recognize each other of course
and with a winsome smile she'll say

"Good morning, Daddy dearest!
Brigit sends you her best. Do you
have a bit of the bean juice left?"

She is undeniably mine.

I'll give my child a huge hug
and offer her a mug of coffee.

Tomorrow might be the day. Can't
wait to wake up and greet her.

For her I'll be happy
to brew a fresh pot.