grassmonk.net

The poem in question: can only be found here! Wowzers!

As I was scanning through my notebook while doing the commentary for A Dream I found this little gem of a poem that I wrote one day in French class. It is not dated, but I am assuming I wrote it sometime during my junior year. I sat next to a girl named Sarah and we sometimes would come up with wacky rhyming French words to amuse ourselves. (She and some others would call me “Cliff” to amuse themselves, and I did not see the humor until much later. Alas.) A few of the small phrases we came up with were “la pêche se dépêche” (“the peach hurries”), “la semaine prochaine” (“next week”), and of course, “le thon est bon” (“tuna is good”).

And now, for your probably-not-reading-French pleasure, I present “Le Thon Est Bon.”

Le thon est bon
Especialement mon thon,
Mais le tien aussi,
Ton thon est si bon.
Son thon n’est pas bon,
Mais mon thon est bon,
Et le tien aussi,
Ton thon est très bon.
Si le thon n’était pas bon,
Ça ne serait pas bon,
Mais ne t’inquiète pas;
Le thon est bon.
Décidément, le thon est bon,
Mais mon thon et ton thon
Sont meilleur
Que son thon.

And now, the loose translation:

Tuna is good
Especially my tuna,
But yours also,
Your tuna is so good.
His tuna is not good,
But my tuna is good,
And yours too,
Your tuna is very good.
If tuna was not good,
That would not be good,
But don’t worry;
Tuna is good.
Decidedly, tuna is good,
But my tuna and your tuna
Are better
Than his tuna.

I told you it was a gem.

The poem in question: A Dream

This is the first of three poems dated July 9, 1996, and it also is the worst, in my estimation, but it is a near toss-up with What If?

This poem is about my English teacher from my junior year of high school, whom I have mentioned a few times before. Rather, it is about her ridiculous approach to and understanding of poetry and the clashes I had with her. It is very stupid. However, it is also very funny, and perhaps that balances things out in the end.

Perhaps not, though.

As I recall, I wrote this poem, or at least worked on it a little bit, while I was at work one day at Wendy’s. Those were the days when Wendy’s sent three or four people outside during lunchtime; one or two to take orders, one to stand at the speaker and call them in, and one to collect money. By the time the you got to the window–which was a short time, then–the food was ready, and you were off on your way again. I worked at Wendy’s for two years, and when I worked day shifts I was one of the outside people the majority of the time. Let me tell you, working the change belt in the winter is no fun task. I don’t know why Wendy’s stopped doing the whole outside order taking thing; it was fun for the employees and it seemed to be a really great way to move everyone through the drive-thru quickly and efficiently. Then again, I think Wendy’s has taken a sharp decline in quality in the last ten years in almost every respect, so I’ll just let it go at that. Just don’t get me started again.

So anyway, there were generally a few minutes here and there when all the orders were taken and you had a little downtime, so I worked a little on my poetry. I seem to remember scratching out the lines on the back of one of the order sheets. (The last I’ll say about Wendy’s for now: I really have fond memories of most of the time that I worked there. This was very probably because my girlfriend worked there too, and we usually got scheduled for the same shifts.)

And now more about the poem. I like the rhyming; I don’t attempt the every-other-line-rhyming very often (a quick scan through my notebook shows only three or four other times). It’s harder than your standard ABCB type rhyme, but when done well it adds a certain something. And no, it is not done especially well here, but I like that I made the attempt, and excepting one line that I shall note later, it’s not absolutely ridiculous.

What makes me laugh about the poem are all the statements that my poetry rocks and how my English teacher would someday

…meet with sad demise,
and taste the soul’s revenge.

Like she would ever care if I became a world famous poet. What would I do, track her down, shove the poems in her face and yell, “See? SEE?!?!?!” Well, actually, I probably would, though now I would do it just to be weird, whereas back then I would have done it because I felt personally insulted about all things linking Miss D to poetry. And if I did track her down, she’d probably just say stupid things about it anyway, so what would be the point. My DREAM, that’s the point!

And seriously,

The soul who was rejected

and

…the soul would be avenged

Seriously, me? Seriously? That really cracks me up.

One thing of interest is that I do find a certain irony now in the lines

For if all understood my writings,
They’d have no meaning unto me.

given the fact that I am now doing commentaries and offering understanding. Also:

She simply can’t them decipher,

is a terrible, terrible reconstruction of a simple line just to make the rhyme. It makes me cringe rather than laugh.

Finally, though hopefully it is obvious, I suppose I should note that “Dream” referred to is that I would become a famous poet and rub Miss D’s stupid ugly nose in it. I must have been really outraged back then. I suppose I would probably have similar feelings today though, if I had to take another class where that whole situation repeated itself. The only thing I can say with certainty is that my wife would surely tire of hearing my whining and complaining.

Post-finally, I just noticed that in the copies of this poem that I have stored on my hard drive the last line of the poem is different. Where on the web site and in my notebook it reads

And taste the soul’s revenge.

the other copies read

And taste the bitter taste
Of the soul’s revenge.

So there’s that.