Poem/a/day:Portrait of a Pretentious Poet…

Portrait of a Pretentious Poet in Despair

Fredy R. Rodriguez-Mejia

When I read Pablo Neruda,

I decided that, yes,

I like it when you stretch out like the world

and yes, tonight, I would like to be invaded

by your powerful army.

When I read Roberto Bolaño,

I felt a terrible need to cry,

and I did

I thought about Christmases in Guatemala,

some drunken children,

walking on the raw asphalt,

on streets that were as dark as black holes,

I thought about

the end of humanity.

When I read Sylvia Plath,

I wanted to write with the vulnerability and the pellucidness

of a troubled poet,

write for example:

“Last night I drank two bottles of rioja,

today I feel sick, and I would like to be alone.”

When I read Saul Williams,

The ancient house of poetry crumbled down.

Now it was about the music, the theatre, the flowers, the spoken word,

all together like an informal symphony

When I read Eduardo Galeano,

a different history passed before me.

I remembered an indigenous woman I met.

She talked, and wept, and said:

“I come from a place where there is only dust,

the most melancholic trees in the world,

and the most dolorous poetry you’ve ever heard,

is there.”

By the time I read Nicanor Parra,

I wanted this to be an anti-poem,

clean, and free of pretentiousness,

but it was too late.

I closed with my last sip of coffee

trying to read my fate in the bottom of the cup,

there, amid lines and crystallized bubbles,

I found myself right next to all of the poets in the world,

men and women,

dressed in white.

Fredy R. Rodriguez-Mejia Ph.D. Student, Department of Anthropology RCAH/CASTL, Fellow
Michigan State University