After my poem was read in class this week there was a distinct fart like silence in the room. I managed to create an air of pretension without any awareness at all. I had an idea and took it so far off into the universe that the tardis would have run out of power chasing it.
The poem was supposed to be about an aching foot but all the historical allusions made it sound like something that should end in “two Grecian urns and a fountain… (trickle, trickle, trickle).” Now that I’ve tried to fix it, I have killed it completely. But a putrid poem is sometimes worth repeating for the sake of a laugh, pity or both. Let me begin by repeating this little tidbit is not about a stone arch. If you have ever been to poetry class you know the poet isn’t allowed to talk so I had to listen to them talking about the personification of the Roman arch for 15 minutes. I think they were just trying to make me feel good. They failed as surely as I failed as a poet.
The arch aches, on Appian Ways.
Crafted for conquest, the roads remain victorious.
Where whorls of green, once welcomed flesh and spur-less bone,
The stones of war , well placed, famously crack-less,
Sped the plantars of fascism, marching, howling like the torn Achilles.
Soft sod, save bones – tarsals, cuboid, calcaneous.
The arch falls, and with it, tumble the most ancient of all empires.
I’m really not sure what I was trying to prove. I had a sore foot! How did it come to this?