Whilst writing a contemplative email, I contemplated a few truths. The most pertinent would be this.
I have come to realize that poets can get away with a lot of tosh, don’t you agree?
Last evening I was trying to win someone over to the side of Atheism by supplying examples of rampant paedophilia in all manners of institutional religions. She smote me with “You have no faith” typa thing thereby negating my entire value system.
However, if I were a poet, this wouldnt be so.
For instance, this –
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
This is the old oaf Neruda. What is so marvelous bout terrifying law clerks, dear sir? Those sods already look like violently abused underpants – discolored and frayed – who would want to bring further wreckage upon them?
And lets assume you were to attempt the said terror-attack, how the fuck would you do it with a lily? A rose I get, the stem has thorns and stuff, but lilies? That too, cut lilies? Who are you? The ghost of Bruno Mafia Past? Do you also deliver horseheads wrapped in taffeta to folks?
That makes no sense. Niether does killing a nun with a blow on the ear. For one thing, you can’t place their ears what with those godforsaken habits they wear. By the time you make approximate calculations about the exact location of her ear, she’ll smack you across the face with one of the heavier testaments. Celibacy and heavy books = violent nuns.
However, since it is he, Neruda, exiled poet etcetra, people look at this and commend his “pathos” and “solitary darkness” et al. If it were me, psychologist, listener to the insane, they would laugh in my face with a “God! you are a nit! take a break from work or something” sort of repartee.
I know this from experience.
Poets make me want to vomit with rage. But I love them all the same.