First, forced relocations
lower lodgings in some
less room, less light.
All the while
unexplained disappearances
James K, Hone, Ruth, others
gone, gone and not replaced.
Those left behind, thin-spined
less popular, lean on each other
take bets on who will be
the last one standing.
Finally, denial of identity
removal of signs
pointing to pleasure troves
proclaiming different-ness.
Survivors now suffer
mass assimilation and burial
in short stories, non-fiction
literature, or classics.
Poetry? Nah mate
don’t stock it any more
waste of bloody space
nobody buys the stuff.
I wrote this poem some years ago after observing the gradual decrease in poetry titles carried by the major bookshops. If anything, it seems to be getting worse.
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Indeed - sadly, this poem gets more apt with each passing year.
ReplyDeleteNice poem! - and a subject dear to every poet's heart. -- It's hard to know how many poets there are if you look at the big chain stores. But surely with so many great poetry books out this year - someone (besides Rona Gallery) must be selling them :)
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