Boxes and files in the basement
await us. Let us make love.
Combustibles changed by a match
shall sing at our wedding--
Alarms shall announce our red guests;
we'll make bureaucrats dance for life.
We'll make the staff eat ceiling cake
served on heated floors; devils
shine like seraphim around
their jealous Lord! In my office, my angel,
you will submit to the glow on my face
while squealing pigs roast in their stalls.
(A recording of the poem.)
Notes
This poem was published in Poet Lore, which began in 1899; it is the oldest continuous poetry magazine in the country, (Volume 77, Number 3, Fall, 1982). "The Arsonist" had been rejected by another magazine prior to its acceptance by Poet Lore; the editor of the first journal--I forgot which one it was--wrote me a note along with a rejection slip. The poem, he opined, revealed that I had a major problem with anger and that I perhaps needed therapy. I remember laughing out loud. Poetry is a form of fiction, dear editor; the use of the first person narrative in a poem does not necessarily indicate anything about the poet's personal life. (Just about the only time I use a match these days is for lighting my little oil lamp before sitting down to meditate. No, I am not going to write a poem about that!)
await us. Let us make love.
Combustibles changed by a match
shall sing at our wedding--
Alarms shall announce our red guests;
we'll make bureaucrats dance for life.
We'll make the staff eat ceiling cake
served on heated floors; devils
shine like seraphim around
their jealous Lord! In my office, my angel,
you will submit to the glow on my face
while squealing pigs roast in their stalls.
(A recording of the poem.)
Notes
This poem was published in Poet Lore, which began in 1899; it is the oldest continuous poetry magazine in the country, (Volume 77, Number 3, Fall, 1982). "The Arsonist" had been rejected by another magazine prior to its acceptance by Poet Lore; the editor of the first journal--I forgot which one it was--wrote me a note along with a rejection slip. The poem, he opined, revealed that I had a major problem with anger and that I perhaps needed therapy. I remember laughing out loud. Poetry is a form of fiction, dear editor; the use of the first person narrative in a poem does not necessarily indicate anything about the poet's personal life. (Just about the only time I use a match these days is for lighting my little oil lamp before sitting down to meditate. No, I am not going to write a poem about that!)
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