Reverent Irreverence and the Art of Poem-Writing

Unless you’re reading e.e. cummings, Dr. Seuss, or Shel Silverstein (all of whom I highly recommend), much of the poetry you encounter will probably be of the “serious” nature. Poems deal most often with the deep stuff of life: love, death, abandonment, joy, fear, etc. It’s not always negative, but it’s very often serious. Besides, there would be no point in studying “nonsense” poetry, as there would be very few (or very short) papers written to analyze it.

In high school I learned to analyze serious poetry. College enhanced my tool-bag. Never, however, would I have considered myself a poet—merely an interpreter. I was a senior in college in the first iteration of a new creative writing course; a curricular guinea pig, if you will, with the added benefit of my English major mostly behind me. By now I could do interpretation and analysis; creation, however, was something entirely different. The professor gave us interesting exercises, encouraged even the slightest hints of actual originality, and critiqued with care and careful thought.

The assignment that became my favorite was to imitate another poet’s work. My favorite poet has always been Robert Frost, so I pulled out my Frost anthology and started flipping. I landed on “After Apple-Picking” (read it here), which I quickly proceeded to begin studying.

But the rhyme scheme was completely inconsistent, meter and foot changed constantly, every line had a different number of syllables . . . and, as other Hubbers have pointed out, the poem is basically about death. A gentle, old-age kind of death, but still . . . death.

This was serious. I had a big job ahead of me.

As I sat on the recliner in my apartment, my roommate on the couch opposite (relaxed-ly reading Harry Potter), I struggled to come up with a subject. Uneven lines, no rhyme scheme, death . . . not a promising direction for a creative project. After several minutes of writer’s block, and knowing we would be turning on American Idol momentarily, I became desperate to at least have something to work with.

“Roomie,” I said, “I need a subject to write a poem about.”

Without even looking up from her book, she said, “Bumblebees. And . . . purple shoes.”

I sat and stared at her for a moment. These were not subjects that matched the poem I had analyzed.

But, I thought as I tried to figure out how to tell her these were not appropriate subjects for a poem, sometimes it doesn’t hurt to poke a little fun into an old structure. Like storing cookies in what used to be a pickle jar. I decided I’d give it a try.

What follows is the result. It’s not intellectual, or witty, or perhaps even entirely respectful to Mr. Frost (though as I said, he’s my favorite). But it is fun. And maybe a reminder that, despite all the analytical tools in the world, a poem is really what YOU make of it.

Enjoy!

(With apologies to Robert Frost.)

If bumblebees wore purple shoes, the
world would seem

A little brighter,

And our loads would feel a little lighter,

As though we’d wandered in a honey
dream.

And if the shoes could carry in their
heels

Lively music—the songs of jigs and
reels,

And if the bees could sing and dance so shod,

No longer would we shy away from bees,

But when they buzz we’d give to them a nod,

Those singing dancing purple-cobbled bugs,

Inviting them to picnics and parties.

They’d warm up their uniquely-colored clogs

And get the music going in their soles,

While we pass pears

Through warm strawberry sunlight appled air,

Removing cares

And spreading joy to all the gathered souls.

Their melody would hover ’round the punch

Where sherbet rainbows float

In tickled ginger ale seas. But the lunch

Will all but be forgotten. Even bowls

Of deserted toffee ice cream dissolve,

While we survey our bumbling friends act out

Their gleeful repartee of tuneful dance.

Our hearts absolve

The bees of any stinging slip-up past

As their tap-toeing beats

Offer hopeful dreams to hostile minds

Where only worry-peppered strain confined

Before the advent of the lilac cleats.

And when the bees their joyful dance had done,

Not one

Of us who heard

Would in haste forget their flying reeling lays

Or the fleeting reprieve from the set

Routine. Absurd,

That a single bee ballet

And buzzing bugs in purple shoes could so

Brighten a group

And bring the light of happiness into

Our lives. Fly on, oh violet-cobbled troupe,

And more picnics beset.