METAPOETICS IV/VI
by Will de Kypia


For E.A.P.

Coffee With The Poet

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

Do you know where poems come from?
Me neither. Babies yes, but poems no.

Everyone knows where babies come from.
The way they're made is notorious while
the origin of poems is mysterious.

I'm a poet — a working poet —
yet my poems simply seem
to drop in unannounced.

Sometimes twice.

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, a private retreat
nobody is ever permitted to enter.

Nobody except me.

The cave door is open and
pieces 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've had a single sip of java.

The poems are malformed, ugly and embarrassing
specimens of the worst sort of poetic putter.

Glaring frostily back at the intruders I snarl—

Who are you? What are you doing here?
And how the hell did you get in?

I'm usually a tad testy till
I've had a taste of coffee.

The impertinent retort of the leader
of this gang of uninvited guests is—

Hello Daddy! We are poems you wrote and
then calmly — no, and then coldly rejected.

You created us, and we all blossomed in
your garden of verse for a season or two.

One evil day you evicted us. How could
you treat your own children that way?

We've always wondered why we were
cast out and how come we don't even
merit a mention in your résumé.

We think it's time for poet and
and progeny to get reconnected.

Therefore we decided to stop
by to have a family chat.

Like Old Saint Nick, we
came down the chimney.

However, we're not bearing
gifts for you, we are seeking
compensation for ourselves.

We'll figure out what we want
after we examine your abode and
inventory your possessions.

Meanwhile you might offer
us a cup of coffee at least, you
brutal offspring abusing beast!

They start to roam through the cave, looking at
the bottles and the books, the humdrum artwork,
the expensive but seldom-used home exercise set.

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

I respond to them politely,
though not entirely forthrightly:

First, there is no coffee.
Second, I am not your daddy.
Third, you are in the wrong house.
🏠
If you have a street address
I will point you to the right one.

Instead of answering they leer like
they're pondering a paternity suit,
plan to make me take a DNA test.

No way I can afford a lawyer.
We working poets are generally
scrabblers and scroungers.

I must distract these despicable discards
until I am somehow able dump them again.

Whoever you are, I am glad
you're here. We play the same
game which is the poetry game.

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

I am trying to write an ending
that's both witty and wise and also
appeals to cute poetical chicks.

The poem I require 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 poke around my sanctum.

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

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

I could use a double espresso right now
to collect my wits and maybe avoid being
caught in a distasteful authorship row.

Ordinary folk won't condemn me for
siring such a caterwauling cacophony.

But the poetry cognoscenti will consider me
a perpetrator of gross acts of aggravated
rhymecrime which to the lords and ladies
of the written word is a serious felony.

So I will be anathema to
those cute poetical chicks.

If only I had brewed myself that pot of…

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 really gives me a thrill.

💊💊💊

My sleep-addled brain swiftly unaddles,
assesses the doggerel invasion situation,
and recalls how to arrange a deportation.

With well-concealed scorn I regard
the jerks who assert they're my works
and thereby have a claim to my name.

They're pathetic opuscular fools
and so without a smidgeon of shame
I loudly faux-proudly exclaim—

What marvelous poetical
compositions I've begotten!

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

You kids are frankly amazing.
Lyrical, topical, and filled with
brilliant insights philosophical.

Do you hanker to become web stars
blazing across a glittering cyber sky?

My skeptical children warily reply
Indeed, we do rather hanker.

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

My gullible children merrily cry
Indeed, 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 artsy website.

The whole damn herd sheepishly bleats
Yes, zap us to him at warp speed,
we ache to attain great acclaim.

I am their shepherd,
they're my meat.

This dude will appreciate your value
and I believe he's publishing tonight.

The Ars Gratia Artis Review will surely
accept them, it's owned by a greedhead
whose sole definition of value is moolah.
Payola shinola._💸

I guess I will spend the
weekend at my side hustle,
part-time ride-share driver.

We hop into a beat-up junker too
tatty for Uber which makes it
perfect for archrival Unter.

I tell the greedy Gratia guy the poems are old
acquaintances new in town who desire a prominent
placement in his highly re$pected publi¢ation.

And since I am still enrolled in the witness
protection program he can't append my name.
Not the fake one, obviously not the true.

I say he should attribute the poems
to some famously prolific author.
Either the fellow from Avon
or else my personal favorite, Mr. Anon.

I negotiate a place in the next issue,
wish the poems and the publisher luck.

Heading home I savor a latte at Starbucks
and return refueled to an empty house.

Where I'll brood over another
vile infestation of weeds besieging
my grownup's garden of verse.

What if they sowed the seeds
to grow a fresh crop of blather
on the shag rug in the foyer?

Laid a clutch of their rotten eggs
in the hall closet’s darkest corner?

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

No, I needn't worry because my
poems have never been very clever.

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

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

One day soon I hope to wake up and
find that a lovely poem I am proud to
call mine has dropped in unannounced.


We'll recognize each other straight away
and with a smile she will cheerily say—

Good morning, Daddy dearest!
Brigit sends you her best. Is there
a little taste of the bean juice left?

I will give my child a big hug and
a brimming mug of cold coffee.
Tomorrow could be the day.
_____