Poems, Poems, Everywhere, Poems, Poems, Up to Your Hair

It is said that the Year of the Golden Pig is the luckiest year around for miles, for EVERYONE (no hyperbole there). It is also said that anytime the year matches your animal, you are screwed. It is also said that the only reason people say the latter is that REALLY the year of "your" animal indicates a year of CHANGE and upheaval for folx and since folx - excepting me, who is all about the chaos whirly-pot - are so transform-a-phobic it gets mislabelled to, "Dude, you are sooooooo hosed this year. Bummer." So, I am a Pig. So what's a gal to believe?

On the one hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.

On the other hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to
me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.

If I had a third hand, it'd point out that I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.

I receive my first clue as we read and reply to someone's poem.
The structure:
One MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with a slight Audre Lorde affectation and stumbles over Latinized pretentious word choices.
Shuffles in embarrassment at their own inadequacies.
Then Another MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with greater affectation.
Then we all silently write notes to the author.
Then we talk about the piece.
Then the writer gets to break their silence and speak.

And as we discuss the poem,
"The Realist" wonders about the feasibility of the poem's metaphor.
"The Jewish Buddhist" illuminates the poem's development as manifesting the interconnection between all humans that is realized through meditation.
"The Wonderer" wants to know why the poem feels a need to end with such a concretely closure focused final line.
"The Play Writer" notes the distinct lack of dialogue in the poem.
"The Environmentalist" adds that the parallels between this piece and the reality of what is happening in the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, while subtle, are distinctly profound.
"I" laugh twice. The poem is funny. I think. "I" also wonder internally whether the misspelling of strawberries is accidental-typo, purposeful, or indicative the presence of a fellow dyslexic in the room.

I receive my mid-clue when it comes to my poem. MFA-candidate poets all scribble thoughts down. My poem is dissected, then awarded more depth, metaphorical meaning, and structural purposeness than it deserves. Finally the class comes to the title, "Seven Strikes Up a Conversation with Eight," which of course has NOTHING to do with the poem, only indicating which two seats on a MUNI 22 Fillmore the characters of this poem would be seated. "The Numerologist" starts us off by finding the numbers BREATHTAKING, as they surely have the deepest of meanings. "The Musicologist" purports the subtle connection of the numbers to the rhythms of a pantoum such as this one. "The Metaphorizer" muses on the Biblical significance of 7 and 8, as the poem is so obviously a religio-political satire. Eventually "The Professor" (I mean, the ACTUAL Professor) says, "I totally don't get the poem's title. Seriously. It means nothing to me." At which point all MFA-candidate poets hmmmmmmmmmmmmm in unison. From vociferous to languid are the noddings of various heads. When I can finally speak, I tell them about the title. The Professor says, "Oh god, I never would have gotten that out of context. Never. That was totally unclear to me. Thanks." Round two of the Choral Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.


All commented-on poem copies are passed back to me for my perusal. 10 of 12 copies have written on them something like, "Fascinating Title" or "Evocative Title!" or "What a perfect title for this piece!" etc. From this activity I learn that "evocative, perfect, fascinating" are all synonyms in Poetry Feedback Diction for "I have no idea WHAT this means." Well, at least when such comments have all been crossed out by their authors just before being passed my way. One copy says, "Title?" That person's name is noted, as they are now in my mind the only trustworthy opinion amongst the crowd.


I receive my final clue as two MFA-candidate poets leave the room:

MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude, have you ever been the Bargain Bank, Duuuuude?"
MFA-candidate poet B: "Dude, I got so WASTED at the Bargain Bank one time. Shiiiit. Duuuuuuude."
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude."
[Door closes behind them.]

Golden Pig: Lucky or Ill Tidings Ahead for a Pig such as myself? Feel free to weigh in. I take all opinions from non MFA-candidate poets.

P.S. Update -- OK, cranky-pants-friends, here's the damned poem in question. Don't get yer panties all up in a wad...

Seven Strikes up a Conversation With Eight
Fillmore and Broadway

Strangers make a date to skate
Neither of us can stand
Such a faith nation circles make
We’ll wobble to a Hassid and Creed

Neither of us can stand
Adverbs or divine intervention
We’ll wobble to a Hassid and Creed
Our god-obsession talk of a nation

Adverbs or divine intervention
Creative design one man’s intention
Our god-obsession talk of a nation
To steady the world we’ll anchor hands

Creative design one man’s intention
Weakened knees make rough passage rites
To steady the world we’ll anchor hands
Though calloused I newly won’t let go

Weakened knees make rough passage rites
Your eyes opaque I stare to you
Though calloused I newly won’t let go
You’ll look at me I’ll glide right through

Your eyes opaque I stare to you
Seatmates make a date to skate
You’ll look at me I’ll glide right through
Such a faith nation

And yes, I know it's not true to the classic pantoum structure. Get over it.