Plotnitsky stands very close to me and tells me
poetry is essentially aggressive.
When I try to disagree
or at least offer cheerful counterbalancing truths
he talks louder and doesn’t hear me. He says
the poet must replace the reader’s world
with a newly constituted world; hence
Wordsworth has no choice but to destroy Milton.
Plotnitsky gets joy
from saying “destroy.”
To say that poetry is violence, indeed
that all language is violence, feels good to Plotnitsky.
Because, maybe,
it makes the life of an English prof seem exciting:
gunfights in the Wild West of discourse.
I feel sort of weary and abused after Plotnitsky departs
smiling. My brain’s been battered.
When I retreat to my desk and write this,
is it fundamentally a violent reprisal?
I don’t feel like a killer. I’m a nice guy
to a considerable extent!
The benevolence and sympathy in me are significant!
At the same time,
at the same time I want to feel good
and this does involve desire for some power.
Power to make Plotnitsky shut up?
Well, power to keep my job,
eat at good restaurants forever,
protect my little son who has my blue eyes,
and summon the admiration of excellent women.
For these purposes, it will be helpful to me
if this poem gets published in Big Deal Quarterly.
Some other poems, including yours maybe,
will have to get bumped out of the magazine.
-That’s life. That’s discourse.
But hey, I’m sorry it has to be that way.
Maybe I’m sorry. Maybe I’m ambivalent. It’s
complicated! But I’m
kind of a nice guy. Let’s get some coffee
and you can tell me about yourself, your world-constitution,
and I’ll be trying to listen.
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