For those who follow this sort of thing, I recently noted that the United States, as of July 1, 2010, has a new poet laureate: W. S. Merwin. I first became acquainted with Merwin in college, and do recall what was, perhaps, his earliest signature poem: "The Drunk in the Furnace." (Not that I was ever drunk . . . I wasn't . . . I just looked dopey as a college student--but I did, in fact, burn garbage in furnaces in the women's dormitories at Indiana State, no joke!)
Okay, so Merwin is the new poet. He's earned it. I've also followed some of Merwin's career through the years and last grew envious of him over a decade ago when I learned that he lived in Hawaii. 'Taint fair, W.S., living in all that splendor.
That's why I'll never be a great poet. How could anyone write poetry who lives among sycamore and buckey trees and has a dog named Buster? A dog, by the way, that often eats his own poop? A dog that will eat the cat's poop?
Merwin has written poems on many subjects, true. But I'll challenge him to a poop poem. Bet I could beat him. I've got a whole drawer full of 'em. (Poems, that is.)
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