The poet blogger, Anthony Wilson of the Lifesaving Poems blog, writes today about his encounter with Michael Symmons Roberts’ poem, Ultramarine. His blog post is here:
Anthony’s post reminds me of my first encounter with the same poem years ago. Roberts’ Ultramarine provoked questions about life and death, self-reflection (not to be confused with navel gazing), and [gulp] a necessity to write – to write (bad) poetry.
If a poem does that to you (like what Roberts’ Ultramarine did to me) – it’s good poetry.
When I say I do bad poetry, I say this not out of false modesty in anticipation of future praise. But I do say so with the lingering shame of those many, many letters of rejection taped to the bedroom wall of my younger Patsak self.
Nonetheless, I share my prose with you (below) – that you can get a feel for how not to write poetry. Also – I share this to share my self with you. Perhaps, Johnny too will discover it someday.
“Nobody” is everyone, a person without accomplishment, and also a reference to the Odyssey when the cyclops, Polyphemus, asks Odysseus for his name. – in case you wondered about the alternate title.
…
…
Cerulean Blue
or A Self-Portrait of a Nobody
…
I knew him well, better than you. Knew him
like a warm wool scarf wrapt around the face
on a cold January morning stroll
along Spuistraat, passing Magna Plaza.
…
I knew the hidden smile sweeping the street
with tassels of saffron, burnt umber, thyme,
gold, sandalwood, dark plum and a little gray –
the man wasn’t as tall as Tom Baker.
…
And the scarf had stretched beyond twelve feet.
…
Knew him like the dull pain – its claws gripping
his ankles and its teeth burying into his calves
as he left the Willis on South Wacker –
an exhausting, inescapable friend
…
that persecutes, tries and tests your patience.
There were times he couldn’t take one more step
down a fragrant spring path in Cismigiu
and he would linger with a cigarette –
…
as if he meant to. And maybe he did.
…
I knew him like a Solomon searching
for a perfect blue – cerulean, in fact.
…
Ultramarine may be a misadventure
like forbidden, swollen areolas,
like a shuddering gasp of completion.
With someone that does not belong to you.
…
Does anyone?! Ever belong to you?
…
Cerulean is ubiquitous – not cheap
like kitsch (to be displayed) in a Florentine curio –
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I’m captivated.
Your kindness is like a soft, down pillow.
No such thing as bad poetry if it speaks for your heart.
Good job.
Thanks Bets, but I dance the fandango with two left feet.
Uh, roses and red violets are blue….
I’m impressed.
Thank you, sir.