—for Ralph Savarese and Sam Pereira
Staid Ianthe unbuttons for me
Though I don’t subscribe to Poetry;
Here’s Childe Harold “refreshed”
(The mode is attic—not so much
Of fashion, misbehaved but touched)
The old girl says a poem is where
We find it…We looked in the reviews,
Found a few quirts to approve,
Short poems as Poe would have them—
We were “turned on” and juicy
Like any reader who’s sappy
But most of the stuff was, well
You know—earnest, too steady
For joy—childish, wanting concurrence
Which, as Byron understood
Will ruin the dinner party
“And yet methinks the older that one grows
Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter
Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after.”
The little magazines are a drear matter
No amusements there; no champagne no lobster
As Ianthe puts it, and her sisters
Agree, water logged though they are
Drowning beats a moistureless journal…
Planet of the Blind 