Yesterday, I said something was not a poem:
The housebound, television-informed senior wanted steak,
went to order Walmart delivery
but gasped because the price was so high,
her vote for Kamala
safely in the mail.
That, gentle reader, is contemporary commentary with line breaks.
Why do I not think it’s really a poem?
- No real imagery to speak of; I mean, I guess you could “see” a television or a mailbox if you stretch, but the text is not very evocative of any senses.
- Not univeralish. It speaks of one situation, one moment in time, and a very particular situation: The election of this year. Would a reader in 2038 know who Kamala was? I hope not! Assuming anyone reads in 2038, and he or she likely won’t be reading this.
It’s short, though, and might serve as filler if I were padding out a book of poetry, but probably not. It targeted to people of a certain political persuasion in an overheated environment instead of all of humanity even if it’s not derogatory to the opposition’s supporters.
So, no, not a poem. Not worth thinking about or mentioning again. Although your mileage may vary.
Spoken as a man who read part of an Ideals magazine’s Easter issue which will be forty when next Easter rolls around and then went to bed with the doors open and thought, “Ah, the smell of spring” because he was under the influence of poems about new flowers.
So your mileage and my sanity may vary.
