Give Us Barabbas by Nemo Bopp

I sometimes think we are all kidding ourselves. To imagine that anyone

really cares about all these inner revelations of experience we

transform into something resembling poetry. Go to any local bookstore

and peruse the Poetry section. You will find it tucked away into the

most innocuous corner of the store. Of course there will always be the

required textbook authors: Eliot, Frost, Poe, Whitman, and sometimes,

if you’re lucky, Ginsberg, Bukowski, or Williams. I guarantee you,  it

will be the slimmest volume of books. I remember one famous critic, I

believe a former director of the NEA, once commented if all the

so-called aspiring poets among us would themselves delve into their

slim purses with the intent of acquiring, over time, their own

personal library of sorts rather than deferring to a workshop mentor

for a source of inspiration…But then why should we help contribute to

those capitalist pigs of the Publishing Establishment? Never mind the

fact that our Beat Generation brethren were all highly literate and

well-read and one actually had a real job and a house in the suburbs.

Will any of this lead us to a higher sense of vision or a more

purposeful existence?  Tune into the 6 O’Clock Evening News to find

the answer.

JRP © 2011

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