![]() Graham Foust wrote two books of poems and lives in Iowa. He teaches at Drake University and can open a bottle of beer with a Bic lighter. Buy his books here and here. See an article of his here. Waylon Jennings’ “If You See Me Getting Smaller.” I was maybe seven years old when I first heard this song, and I distinctly remember feeling that the speaker/singer was trying hard to articulate something—that this wasn’t just fun or noise—though I didn’t know the word “articulate” at the time. If you want a more “poem-y” answer, then I’ll say James Wright’s “Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio,” because when I realized that the poem pivots on a single word (“Therefore”), I felt like I’d touched a part of my brain that I hadn’t before touched. Robert Hass writes really well on this—the word “therefore,” not brain touching—in an old issue of Ironwood, but I hadn’t yet read his piece when I discovered Wright’s poem. (Incidentally, I do a kind of cover version of this poem in Leave the Room to Itself, but I don’t manage to get my pivot on.) I’ve recently been asked to give a lecture that’s tangentially related to this topic (a poem you love, but not necessarily the first one); this will be the first time I’ve ever been paid to do such a thing. I’m still not sure what’s going to happen on that day, but there’s a good chance that Jane Miller’s “The Poet” will be the first poem I’ve ever loved for money. I don’t think any of the printed matter in my home would really surprise any of my peers/colleagues, though I suppose “peers/colleagues” includes people who don’t know me personally. JANE magazine, maybe. I read it because one of my oldest friends writes for them. And because it’s funny and it smells good. And I love listening to Car Talk. Do radio shows belong in italics? (God, it’s good to be alive.) Somewhat important, I suppose, given that I do read books on philosophy now and again. I wouldn’t say it was any more important than anything else with which I might come into contact. Karl Kraus. Elias Canetti. Antonio Porchia. Adorno, Celan, and Beckett. Ingeborg Bachmann. Amelia Rosselli. Bei Dao. Most recently, Ernst Meister. These folks have a different word for everything. I end up reading some poetry almost every day, I guess. But I listen to George Jones and Aretha Franklin almost every day, too. “Poetry,” as Allen Grossman writes, “is of no particular importance.” Tolstoy. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The sharpening instructions for my push mower. Flowers for Algernon. Barrett Watten. Also, I’ve never seen Top Gun or The Sound of Music. I guess I’m just waiting for that special someone to come along and rub my nose in these things. I wonder if there are things that people assume I haven’t read but that I actually have . . . Assuming your seven year old doesn’t currently use—but has in the past used—training wheels, I’d tell him/her that a good poem feels much like falling off of his/her bicycle. (The falling part, really, not the hitting-the-ground part.) A bad poem feels like using training wheels. I thought Salman Rushdie was pretty good in Bridget Jones’s Diary. Henry Rollins was terrible in Heat. I guess that’s a “No,” but not a resounding one. I’ll defer to the bumper sticker on Derrida’s Lincoln Town Car (a rental?): “If I told you that you had a nice text/body, would you hold it/it against me?” |
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