EXPLODING THE SPRING MYSTIQUE
Good Morning, World! Captain Eileen her At her little morning desk Dying to tell you at the crack of dawn How Dearly she hates it How Spring truly sucks. Here we have it outside my morning window Birds twittering, buds newly greening on perky branches “Tweet”, another fucking bird. And I had to go through a whole night to get here. That’s the part that’s really hard to swallow. I had to lie awake for hours thinking of how I hat just about Every man, woman and child who walks the face of this earth Myself included, I find self-hate extremely motivating I thought of everyone I’ve ever fucked or wanted to and Thought how unrewarding it was. “Can’t take it with you!” Like they say. I thought of the conversations I’ve had. Nearly the mystery was unraveled in 1962. Then in 64, 67, 72, 73, 73 and 74. And those were the transcendent Conversations. Not to mention the warm friendly variety, or The pitiful confessional motif. Both of you Pour out your sorrows and feel instantly better. “And I thought I was fucked up!” each thinks. I thought of my dreams of becoming a great poet & then I thought of My poet friends who dream no differently. I thought of my Poet friends and how they have no right to live within The revolting egocentric realities uniquely expressed in Syntax all their own and then they print their own poems In their own little magazines. Was it Marlon Brando who said, “Looking up the asshole of death.” Anyhow, by 35 most poets either can’t do it anymore Or have ruined their lives of or the lives of others or have Simply realized that all of it was a farce. Suddenly strack at 35 by the genuinely mediocre fact of your life Which previously stood as a backdrop to the cosmos or culture And now ... Har, Har, Middle-Aged Poet! Joke’s on you. Broke and not very good-looking. Though I don’t plan to stop at this moment. Sure, I hate my friends and they hate me and there’s no one around to fuck except the ones who won’t fuck me and they like to torture me And I like it - my poems keep getting better and better. But the fact is If I am no longer a poet, then I will to face being a useless and Mediocre human being now, rather than when I’m 35, as is the norm 35 will be terrifying. A) Unless dead or raving mad or abandoned with a large shopping bag And a pint of Wild Irish Rose, I will be B) teaching a workshop or C) penning a villanelle, as one poet puts it, or D) just taking a shit and suddenly the joke will be swarming all Around me, a nettle of fears and doubts, cold icy sweat, perhaps I’ll be standing on a stage reading a fucking sonnet and Whomp! “Your life is meaningless! This is the last message!” “What, What...” I’ll mutter, swinging my arms around spastically But I know what it means: “You blew it, Baby it was a joke.” So I go home to my lover (If I’m that fucking lucky when I’m 35 ... Why should it start then? But listen, this is the clincher...) I go home to to my lover, who’s of course in her early 20s A Younger Poet. There’s a note on my pillow Sorry, Honey, you peaked. Arrrgh! I shriek at the heavens. All those years I chortled at men: Ha! You guys are done in at 18. Your “prime.” We women don’t peak until 35. I collapse on my bed, a sexual and artistic homicide. Though still breathing, and it is Spring.
— Eileen Myles