How to write bad poetry like a nobody

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by Stan Faryna

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Andres Segovia, Asturias for Spanish Guitar

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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:

Michael Symmons Roberts’ ‘Ultramarine‘

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.

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Cerulean Blue

or A Self-Portrait of a Nobody

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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.

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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.

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And the scarf had stretched beyond twelve feet.

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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

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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 –

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as if he meant to. And maybe he did.

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I knew him like a Solomon searching

for a perfect blue – cerulean, in fact.

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Ultramarine may be a misadventure

like forbidden, swollen areolas,

like a shuddering gasp of completion.

With someone that does not belong to you.

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Does anyone?! Ever belong to you?

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Cerulean is ubiquitous – not cheap

like kitsch (to be displayed) in a Florentine curio –

not even a cabinet adorned with angels

or six winged seraphim gilt in gold.

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But he had tried anyway. Wouldn’t you?

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Cerulean is effervescent, sweet, fleet

like light glinting on an artichoke’s crown

in the afternoon gardens of Monticello

or the first, unsteady flight of a robin.

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That’s how I knew him. A cerulean blue.

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Like the old dog that still chases his tail –

going round and round in twirling, whirling,

unabashed circles like a dervish

in prayer; like a twister on the sea,

moving over the face of time and space,

blinking like the light of a distant star

that prevails against the darkest of nights

and is gone when you take a second look.

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Like a nobody.

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That’s how I knew him. Did you know him too?

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Stan Faryna
28 April 2013
Fairfax, Virginia

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