Letter to a Newly-Published Poet

#70, October 25, 2005

“I don’t want to join any organization that will accept me as a member.”

– Groucho Marx

My sister gave me your book

for Christmas.

I thanked her profusely,

though I am not quite sure why.

I enjoyed the other book

she sent me; yours left me, well,

perplexed. I wanted to read about

“Thatcherland,” and found this

in the other work; you

told me of international liaisons,

of an affair that went sour,

but which was still good enough

to write about.

On the inside cover

is a picture of contentment –

you, clearly happy

at the thought of your

first published work –

not at the thought

of your unhappy affair –

at the thought

that you were now joining

a special club

with limited access;

limited by travel permits,

invitations to love affairs

in Paris. For to be a poet

you must first have

a poet’s experiences

then the ability,

or foolhardiness,

to put them all down

on paper.

And what are the rules of this club?

I hear you answer that you need

to develop a voice, a poetic voice,

one that comes through to the reader

as the page is scanned.

This has nothing to do with rhyme

or time,

nothing to do with the length of the line –

some lines may be as short as

this

while others can continue on and on until they must be wrapped around the

bottom

like a pair of Prufrock’s rolled-up trousers.

No, it is just the voice.

But, I then ask, what if –

what if I (author) am

the only one who hears that voice?

Simple, you (real author) say,

I cannot join your club.

Can I apply for affiliated membership,

then, or only remain a guest

in the pages of some obscure magazine

where the readers don’t know

any better, or one that I publish myself

with a readership of one?

May I issue myself a membership card?

I don’t mean to be mean,

or confrontational,

but what if I tell you

that I was at all those parties

you talked about, and at some of those

unfortunate love affairs

—a fly on the wall, you know –

and I didn’t hear your voice?

—there were a few lusty grunts,

here and there,

but no voice could be heard

above the clatter of all that living.

If I too were a published poet

I would no doubt finish there,

providing a punch line

that leaves you sprawling on the floor

poetically; the sated wrath

of the unpublished poet

—but I just I stumble on...

Perhaps it is just the shock

that you are two years

my junior, published,

and with manuscripts

no doubt hidden away

in the top draw of your desk

at the Civil Service

(I am curious:

do they allow you

to jot down a few lines at work

and describe it as “Larkin about”?

or do you scribble it all down

in your notebook on the bumpy,

noisy bus ride home?).

Of course I am jealous.

Wouldn’t you be in my position?

You are a club member

and I am not.

And quoting Groucho Marx

just won’t do.