Poetry

Someone I know not that long ago posted a Tweet that they had some poems published in one of those literary quarterlies, the "North American Review," a publication that proudly proclaims to be around since 1815, which if you do the math right, is three years after the War of 1812 when the British set fire to the White House. That is truly a long time ago.

I will confess complete ignorance of the publication. But in the spirit of seeing what was published I ordered a copy. It wasn't free, but it didn't bankrupt me either. 

And there inside were the two poems that were published. I knew from some Web profiles that they were "into" poetry. I will also confess that long ago I sort of gave up on reading poems. I just plain don't understand the ones that are now written. I did, I think, understand and like one of the two poems this person had published in the publication. As for not understanding the other one, it's not the author's fault, it's mine. Try as I might, I just find it hard to relate to poetry that doesn't rhyme.

Through Twitter (which I hope doesn't go away) I remarked to them that I used to write poetry. They expressed surprise. I explained that way back in the '60s I used to write what I considered Light Verse, heavily influenced by reading lots of Ogden Nash and Phyllis McGinley.

I tried to get something published, but it never happened. I stopped trying to write poetry of any kind until the events of 2001 and 2002 occurred in  my life. I've memorialized those two events in one poem I publish it in my blog every September 16, the anniversary of the second event, and the one that usurped any feelings I might have had from 9/11, despite finally emerging from Tower One's 29th floor, approximately 40 minutes after the impact of the 767, a little wet and dusty, but without any physical harm, and without any of my belongings that I brought to work that day, or had at my desk.

I could find examples of the verse I used to write, but choose not to. There's is one quatrain I wrote that I can still remember, based on the experience of living in my grandmother's apartment on East 19th Street in NYC, just east of Second Avenue, a railroad flat apartment that was in a building that still stands, although I'm sure by now has been converted into desirable condos or co-ops.

At the time in the '60s the rent was less than $100 a month, and after review by the city was actually lowered. Despite its basic seediness, it wasn't all that an unattractive place. I mean, a pigeon only flew in from a open window once and landed at my feet as I lay in bed.

There were other creatures that came and went, and lead me to write the following unpublished classic, "Midnight in the Bathroom."

Roaches, do not run and hide
When I venture your side.
Slow down and take a breather,
Because it seems I can't sleep either.

Anyone who would like to publish this now can still get in touch with me.

http://www,onoffram.blogsot.com