Paula the poet.
That’s me.
Not Paula the poet-ess,
Oh no, I believe in political correctness
(Though maybe that’s just because
I’ll never look good in a dress
Or be sent roses
And so say
I never wanted them anyway).
It’s not easy though,
Being a poet, you know:
It takes talent, and time,
And energy, and rhyme…
I mean,
Not just anybody can be seen
Professing the world is mean,
And love is a battleground,
Or the other way around.
No – you have to look the part:
Hence the black
(Though I left my beret out the back)
Anything that hasn’t been washed
In six weeks,
Or reeks
Of existentialism
Will do.
Oh – it helps to live in the inner-city too.
Preferably with a tortured artist—
As if there’s any other kind—
And a few
Half-dead goldfish, or
Half-alive cockroaches
Because sometimes only they have
Anything that even remotely approaches
Appreciation for you;
Sometime only they know what you go through.
And it’s true—
There is a lot to do.
You’ve gotta be dedicated to that noble but unrealistic, artistic goal,
You can’t be afraid to at every single opportunity bare your soul,
Even – especially! – if it’s not going to be appreciated or understood…
Or your audience pelts you with rotting fruit and the legs from the hardwood
Chairs they were sitting on.
Oh, and you need an unwavering self-discipline because you’ll be spending hours upon
Hours upon
Hours, in creating…composing…writing, even…making flowery
That great masterpiece of post-modern literature – the dole diary.
Try to remain sober
As little as you can,
And talk to that homeless man
On the corner,
You’ll find he was a former
Poet too.
The writing’s the easy part,
No poet has to be particularly smart,
Just cram all your
Insecurities,
Inadequacies,
Vulnerabilities,
Thoughts, fears and theories
Into a couple of couplets,
Or free verse—
C’mon, any old idiot can do that.
But if melancholia’s not your thang,
Try to be funny,
Send something up;
There’s a thousand stereotypes at your disposal.
Oh – and you can’t go wrong
With ‘Australia’
And ‘genitalia’.
I’m still working
On my great offering
To the literary world.
I’ve got the first few
Lines – here, I’ll read them to you,
Tell me if I suck:
“In this beautiful land of Australia,
We can proudly something, something,
Something, something our genitalia”
And here I get stuck;
I need a great one-liner,
Something deep and personal…
Oh, I know – I’ll just talk about my vagina.
February 2001