Why so late posting the Quotable Poet December Poem of the Month? The answer’s pretty good. It’s because rumor had it that the Bright Skylark crew was about to release a new video for the poem Holiday Letter for a Poet Gone to War by QP Aberjhani. It seemed like a standard brilliant idea to wait until the video dropped and spotlight a link to it in this post but hey, guess what?
You got it, the video didn’t happen. And since it went down like that we decided to have some holiday fun with this month’s poem, “A Friend Like a Drunk Poem on New Year’s Eve.” Most of the quotes you see by the QP around the web lean on the heavy side and if you went by just those you wouldn’t think he knows how to laugh. Truth is he’s got poems and stories on the comic side plus the other side. So for this go-round we’re flipping the happy holiday switch. This one’s from The River of Winged Dreams complete with the quote by French surrealist poet Guillaume Apollinaire. Check out the reference to “MySpace” instead of Facebook or Tumblr. Wassup with that?
A Friend Like a Drunk Poem on New Year’s Eve
“The air is filled with strangely human birds.”––Guillaume Apollinaire,
from The New Spirit and the Poets
Your wife calls. Asks me to take your keys,
make you stay here tonight. She refuses
your refusal to leave the world to its chosen pains.
Long ago I stopped trying to convince you
that your hands are not roadside bombs.
Your tears not rapists. Your arms not starving children.
You say you feel like a woman who can’t stop giving birth.
Like a man just discovering he is worthy of love.
Like heat surfing dream-waves of burning cosmic intention.
I consider how the syllables of your soul have never
hung my imperfections from a gallows of public
scrutiny while wallowing in the gigglings of neurotic tapeworms.
Your lines style splendor in cashmere meters.
Your rhymes pulse quasars of quantum compassion.
There is no sacred love your pen will not kiss, pray for, or heal.
Forty-eight thousand friends subscribe to your blog on MySpace.
They are witty with you, get horny too, and sometimes sublime.
But know nothing of the nightmares you puke on my shoes.
At midnight your wife calls again. Says Happy New Year
and she will still love you sometime tomorrow after lunch.
Tells me I am not a bad poet and an even better friend.
At the end of “Auld Lang Syne” you open more champagne.
I take a hard deep breath to scold you for your weakness.
We hiccup at the same time, and hum in harmony as if on cue.
poem by Aberjhani (from The River of Winged Dreams)