A
Writer’s Lament, or Ten Years Among the Wordmongers - dedicated to David Shumate* and Tracy Mishkin**
by Mac Greene
by Mac Greene
So,
here I am, a word bumbler trying to transform into an emerging
writer, crawling
through the smashing surf onto one of the endless islands in the Archipelago Poetico. My Grand Canyon poem washes up in Hawaii. The zombie piece rots on Deadman’s Rock. Several haiku gardens blossom in Japonesia. I land a Christmas tree and a raft of ravens on Wilderness Isle, just as waves slam me down and pull me back to sea. My chapbook lights up the phosphorescentalgae, and then fizzles in the pounding waves. Drums and orators vociferate around all-night campfires on SlamBam as my rap poem bobs in a craft beer bottle. I steer clear of the broken crags and ivory towers of MFAland, especially Solipsism Reef and Overly Mannerd.
Writers emerge from water spouts and whirlpools, only to be dragged back into the surf, sand in the crotch of our swimsuits, fighting against rip currents and flesh-eating jellyfish. I hear the mad cackling of Prosapomia Absurdia, where Neruda opened his briefcase and the room filled with seagulls* and porpoises suck strawberry daiquiris at poolside bars. The Poet Laureate asks Ronald for directions to McDonalds and reserves an AirB&B with a chatty fox squirrel. She is serenaded by a cello full of bumble bees**, while ants build empires beneath her feet. Forever emerging, I retreat on a shark-bitten surfboard searching for the mythical Sanity Isles in the Peach Glow Sea.
through the smashing surf onto one of the endless islands in the Archipelago Poetico. My Grand Canyon poem washes up in Hawaii. The zombie piece rots on Deadman’s Rock. Several haiku gardens blossom in Japonesia. I land a Christmas tree and a raft of ravens on Wilderness Isle, just as waves slam me down and pull me back to sea. My chapbook lights up the phosphorescentalgae, and then fizzles in the pounding waves. Drums and orators vociferate around all-night campfires on SlamBam as my rap poem bobs in a craft beer bottle. I steer clear of the broken crags and ivory towers of MFAland, especially Solipsism Reef and Overly Mannerd.
Writers emerge from water spouts and whirlpools, only to be dragged back into the surf, sand in the crotch of our swimsuits, fighting against rip currents and flesh-eating jellyfish. I hear the mad cackling of Prosapomia Absurdia, where Neruda opened his briefcase and the room filled with seagulls* and porpoises suck strawberry daiquiris at poolside bars. The Poet Laureate asks Ronald for directions to McDonalds and reserves an AirB&B with a chatty fox squirrel. She is serenaded by a cello full of bumble bees**, while ants build empires beneath her feet. Forever emerging, I retreat on a shark-bitten surfboard searching for the mythical Sanity Isles in the Peach Glow Sea.
References:
High
Water Mark, “All Seas Belong to Neruda,” by David Shumate,
University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004
I almost didn’t make it to McDonalds, by Tracy Mishkin, Finishing Line Press, 2014
“Sleeping with the squirrels” by Tracy Mishkin, Zingara Poet (online), Fall, 2016
I almost didn’t make it to McDonalds, by Tracy Mishkin, Finishing Line Press, 2014
“Sleeping with the squirrels” by Tracy Mishkin, Zingara Poet (online), Fall, 2016
From
the poet: “As
you can see in Writer's Lament, Mac Greene hopes to become an
emerging writer. He has eclectic interests, as most of the references
in Writer's Lament are actual poems that have been published in an
eclectic array of magazines. In his day job he is a Clinical
Psychologist specializing in teenagers and gender issues.”