-Marilyn’s arithmetic-
there seemed to be fewer poems written
pertaining to the death of Marilyn Monroe
than I assumed there would be by the time I wrote mine.
don’t get me wrong.
I'd bet every tomdick'nharry in the neighborhood
had one to recite whenever you went over there for cheap
chardonnay and a platter of assorted cheese samplings.
but in the realm of post-death Marilyn poems
far from the houses of pesky neighbors,
there are fewer than I thought there would be.
there's Bukowski’s blunt-edged account
there's Bukowski’s blunt-edged account
written in close to real time,
(he hears the earthworms pant for her bones)
and there's one by Sharon Olds
which cuts-to-the-chase, written long after the fact.
to close-out his poem, Bukowski holds a toast to her memory
a full minute with a glass of, I'll guess imported beer, whereas
a full minute with a glass of, I'll guess imported beer, whereas
Olds goes after the coroner's attendants.
she follows them home when their work is done.
It's an unpleasant situation.
Sharon says the "ambulance men"
Sharon says the "ambulance men"
attending to her body were never the same.
of one she said,–– even his wife and kids looked different.
(pity the poor attendants)
later,–– on the frontier reserved for unabsolved poets,
I found myself writing one inspired after another viewing
of "The Seven Year Itch" on television, contributing to the pool where
Marilyn's elegies from all sources,–– memorials, eulogies,
bad jokes on the Bedford and County Bus, like-minded poems, and
requiem masses are summed-up to be recorded for posterity.
in summation:
this personal entry will actually be my second "Marilyn" poem,
and from the fundamental way I calculate such things,
that should be one more than necessary to add my two-cents-worth
to the surprisingly short column of contributors on the death of
Marilyn Monroe.
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