I once knew a man called Poetry.
His hands were fine as silk
combined with autumn leaves
and they would weave themselves
throughout every pore in my short frame
with long, slow, lingering luscious strokes.

Poetry would flow and ebb
like calm waters in a hurricane
clash down like symbols in a symphony
and play me with the grace
of a medieval harp.

When Poetry was in motion
and his motion was in me
my hips would glide to meet him
in such a way that, I swear, the heaven's opened up
and showered us with some sort of spiritual, rhythmic karma
that we couldn't have denied
even if we lived on the opposite ends of time.

Poetry flung his all into everything
and his everything into his all
with a fervor and passion
that, I was sure,
could only  be surpassed
by God himself.

Yup, I dug Poetry
and Poetry dug me.

It was a time when marriage
was unconventional, socially obsolete,
cast to the wind by "Flower Children"
and considered irrelevant
to those of us who wore headbands
stretched across our foreheads
with "Peace" signs on them.

Oh, but I would have bore Poetry's children
or bore a ring on my left hand
or bored myself straight through the earth
to China for Poetry.

Instead, I moved in with him.

I remember it was a clear, crisp day
with the sun shining
and our eye's gleaming
when I moved into Poetry's
Volkswagon Van
that still had our artistic display
of flowers and rainbows and peace signs
drying on the outside.

We wore our love beads, gauze shirts
and faded, shredded bell bottom jeans.
We feasted on homemade wine and song and each other
until, one day, Poetry got this forlorn look in his eyes
that he would sometimes get even when he wasn't tripping
and said, "Petunia Honey," (That being me, of course),
"I'm missing my Mom and Dad.
I wanna go back for a visit, bring you along
and think about settling down, ya know?"

Well, I felt pretty damn settled as it was
but had this part in my heart
that was willing to try something else
so I said, "Okay, Poetry,
how 'bout if we go for
       a visit?"

He flashed that beloved smile at me
flung his arm over my shoulder
and we jumped from the back of our "love bug"
to the front and headed off for
       Connecticut.

Days later we pulled up to a wrought iron gate
that appeared to be yawning a bit of a warning to me
drove up the long drive, past the gardener
and parked in this huge half circle
that I thought was a
       parking lot.

As we approached the double door
to this marble structure,
with a hell of a lot more windows
in it than the two flat I was raised in
... out squeezed this woman
in a purple polyester dress.
Her breasts waved as wildly as her hands
as she wheezed into Poetry's arms
snorting something about missing him
so much that she had to get another poodle
in his absence.

       THAT was Poetry's Mom.

Shortly after introductions
we were waved into the parlor
where a puny little white haired man
was smoking a cigar that looked bigger than him
holding a snifter of brandy that, even I knew,
was not supposed to be filled to the brim
and mumbling something under his breath
about stupid white-assed poodles.

       THAT was Poetry's Dad.

Somehow, I made it through the event of dining
at the mahogany table, that seated 20 people,
only to be whisked away by Poetry's Mom
to the Tea Room.

       THIS is where the REAL business began.

Poetry's Mom sipped her tea,
looked me straight in the eye
while she fingered her long strand
of pearls that dangled over he floppy breasts
and said, "So, what do you think of my son?"

Feeling strange, I gushed
in a kinda offhand way,
"Oh, I loooove Poetry."

She continued to stare at me
with this predatory glint in her eyes
and said, "I like pretty words sometimes too
but what do you think of my son?"

Once again, although a bit confused,
I tried to look pleasing
and replied, "Poetry is all a woman could want."

Poetry's mom acted like she was jumping at live bait
with a hook in mouth, as she exhaled slowly
... making a bit of a whistling sound between her teeth
and spoke once more, saying, "What's all this talk
about poetry when I am simply trying to ask what
you think of my son?"

I was feeling mighty confused right about then
and blubbered, "I AM talking about your son ... Poetry."

"Oh my," she snickered,
"is that what he's been calling
himself lately?"

"Umm, yes," I countered,
"that's his name, isn't it?"

She heaved those shoulders up and down,
shook her head in absolute dismay
and replied, "My goodness, no!
His name is:

P ... Ponchas
O ... Obadiah
E ... Edward
T ... Tobias
R ... Romero
Y ... Yosiah

the Third!"

Right then and there,
even though I swear I wasn't tripping,
my eyes glazed over and the world
spun for a moment and I had this weird vision.

I saw myself with
Ponchas Obadiah Edward Tobias Romero Yosiah The Fourth
propped on my hip,
while Ponchas Obadiah Edward Tobias Romero Yosiah The Fifth
was suckling my breasts
and Poncha Obadiah Edward Tobias Romero Yosiah The Sixth
was throwing a tantrum on the floor
and I was either trying to untangle or strangle
the neck's of Yosiah The Fourth and Yosiah The Fifth
from or with my long strand of pearls.

Now, whether is was that vision
or Poetry's real name or what
... I don't know
but something changed drastically
       THAT day.

I started to notice Poetry's fine hands
had dirt caked underneath the fingernails
and he had a thumbnail
that was always bruised
and falling off.
His teeth were yellow and,
I don't know if it was all the fiber in his diet
or the fiber in his being, but
God forgive me,
Poetry farted all night long in his sleep
every single damn night.

Our clashing symbols, frenzied lovemaking
and all that shit about passion
just seemed to fizzle out, dry up
and begin feeding on itself that day
... like a hamster eating its young.

We had absolutely
       NOTHING
in common other
than an odd sense of dislike
for each other that kept us
either attracted or distracted
depending on the time of the day,
or the phase of the moon
or whatever else could be
pitched in front of us.

Poetry and I parted shortly after that.
After all, we squabbled more than anything else
during this period when "peace man" was of the essence.

In looking back,
some 35-odd years later,
I don't think I even liked him very much.

As a matter of fact, ever since that experience,
whenever I hear that phrase,
"What's in a name?"
All I can think
is what do I know?
I once knew a man called Poetry
and Poetry sucks!

02/17/2007

Author's Note: This was written on the 30th day of April, which is Poetry Month. I was part of Berks Bard which hosted a 30 day festival of poetry each day and evening. Believe me, after 30 days and nights of poetry readings ... poetry DID suck. I wrote this poem to read on the last night of readings. I don't think I wrote another poem for six months after that experience. :)

Posted on 02/17/2007
Copyright © 2024 Kyle Anne Kish