More Death Star Monday Poetry
This weeks Monday Poetry Corner is unintentionally dedicated to the Vanguard clan on account of boobs being mentioned again.
I maintain my innocence in the matter. It was John Cleese.
So yeah, poetry remains troubling. You should pay attention to your troubles, because they are significant.
I am still not able to understand poetry. I don’t know what it is. I’ve been trying all my life to figure it out, and I’m not dumb enough to think the “trying to figure out” part is the actual reason for it. But, like the pope in the infamous Monty Python sketch, I do know it when I see it.
That’s a joke about boobs by the way, and again it’s funny because it’s true; in both respects. You do actually recognise art when you see it, and boobs are of course art. Or at least they can be. Like I said; you’ll know it when you see them.
I wrote my own poem about tanks last week, and for me it has served its purpose: it made people smile. And it also expressed a little something about the Ru 251; a very significant vehicle in both my tank driving and tank philosophising careers. I don’t really know why I did it, I just did. That’s how it happens; poetry just hits you, I guess.
This week, it has put me in an awkward situation. A long time friend sent me a poem, and made it very clear to me it was just for fun, and not for use.
I saw immediately it was true poetry.
And if this person had chosen a different alias, and a different poem for their inspiration, I would probably have kept their secret.But I can’t, because it’s Emily Dickinson. And I know Emily Dickinson can make people understand poetry.
I know this, because Bill Murray showed me. If you don’t recall, Bill Murray is Dr. Peter Venkman in Ghostbusters, or he is himself in Zombieland, depending on how old you are. Anyway, he’s involved in some poetry foundation or whatever it is, and they had built a house to do their poetry stuff, and so when they were done building the place, there was a kind of ceremony, and Bill thanked all the actual construction workers who had built it for their efforts.
Remember Bill Murray is Dr. Venkman.
He jokes around with them a while, and makes some jokes about poetry being stupid and ineffectual, and no one really cares about it except intellectuals, but you guys, you did somethig real; you built the house. So he reads them some samples of the stuff people who calls themselves poets write. “It get’s worse”, he says. “This one’s short”. He invites them to read some of their own original poetry. It’s another joke, of course.
“Don’t be shy”.
“Now I’m going to read a corny one for you”, Bill says. “What’s this gals name again? Oh yea, Emily Dickinson”. He sighs.
“I dwell in possibility..” he starts. It’s the poem “I dwell in Possibility”. And it’s so disarming. They all listen. The mood changes. Everyone hears what she is trying to say, because there is no other way to deal with the words she wrote.
Emily Dickermax is not Emily Dickinson, but it’s poetry just the same. As I said she is secretly a friend of mine, and I’ve had a week to consider my betrayal. My decision is, it has to be shared. Because it’s not Emily Dickinson, but Dickermax.
Do yourself a favour and look up Bill Murray reading poetry to construction workers, and also do read a few poems by the actual Emily Dickinson. The one you are about to experience through the filter of years of tank driving is called “Because I could not stop for Death”
This is our Emily. She speaks to all of us.
Because I could not stop at Death-star
Because I could not stop at Death Star
He kindly stopped in front of me
The Leopard 1 posed stock and still in my sights
And I blew him to smithereens.
He slowly drove, the M60 knew no haste
I put him away for eternity
With my HE and also my HESH
For his gold noobidity
We were in Vineyards where as Deathstar I stood
Camping in the bush
I blew the nighttime into day
And said goodbye to the setting sun
Or rather – Deathstar sits silently
Camo drawn quivering and chill.
For only if the Leopard had espied
Death poised ready to strike from on the hill.
Since then ’tis centuries and yet
Feels shorter than the Winter Malinovka Day
I first loaded British HESH
To dispatch others towards scrapyard eternity.