I received a “complimentary” letter from a salesman in New York about my book Sixty Sonnets. I chopped up his passionately anguished prose into a parody free-verse poem. What else can you do with such things?

“The Aging Salesman in the Age of Fading Salesmanship and Free Verse, or, He’s a Poet and Don’t Even Know It” by Anonymous

1.

Hey, I just read some
Of your sonnets
And scanned the rest.

Really not bad.
Not bad at all.
I’m impressed!

They have just enough
Formal detachment,
Despite the “I”,
To stand a chance.
Somebody might read
A few of them a thousand years
From now and find
Something
In them.

2.

Try as I might,
Though, I can’t help
But feel it’s an archaic
Form better left to the dead.

3.

There is no place for a “Poet”
In a world without rules.
Everyone is an exhibitionist.
Everyone is a public confessor.

Everyone is a Poet.

It’s all so jejune and banal
Now to pull
Your pants

Down

In public.

4.

You have enough reserve
And enough technical skill
To at least reach out
For transcendence.

Of course, though,
That judgment can only
Be passed a thousand years

From now.

The odds,
Of course,
Are against you.

Otherwise it’s merely product,
Entertainment.

5.

In this stinking dung heap
Of a democratic culture
The best poetry is being lived
Not written.

6.

Poetry is bit like musicals–
Patently absurd.

7.

Anyway, well done.