Gary Snyder Annoys Me
Well, that is to say, not Gary,
himself but his poems, and when I
say they annoy me, I don’t mean
they annoy me but, I should say,
some obscure failure to live
in his world for even the breath
of a page. He’s as wasted on me
as chateau Rothschild on a ten dollar
palate. I love Gilbert and Bukowski,
Moore and Limon (especially her
firemen who dance), and who
doesn’t secretly admire Collins crapping
pigeons on generals and the goblet
and the wine in perpetual union.
He will always be the goblet
and the wine, never less, than the goblet
and the wine. But for me Snyder
is the one eye’d man in my river
of the blind.
by Neil Flatman
Editor’s Note: This poem’s casual voice belies the thousand and one name-drops. In some other voice on another day, these lines might sound condescending, but this poem keeps a tongue firmly in cheek with great wit.
(PS: I’m starting to believe I should probably just publish a chapbook of Neil’s work. Autumn Sky Poetry Publishing? Hmm.)
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