To My Mother, Who Favored Little Marty's Poems, Over Mine

Have you even read any of his trash?

You praise him, unaware of the sharp lash

of your superlative words' sound on me.

His is not real, artistic poetry,

but only clever, shallow imitations---

as meaningless as madmen's incantations.

Your comments give him unearned validations,

and set his scribbles to equality

with my poems.  His deserve to be reviled;

the bastard date-raped Lady Flowerchild.

Yet you give him a welcome and a pass

to join us:  that clodhopping, horse's ass.

I promise, by the little you hold sacred:

toward him, I will maintain relentless hatred.



Author's Notes/Comments: 

I have written elsewhere about Little Marty's assault (we did not then have the term date-rape) upon Lady Flowerchild.  He turned his memories of the assault, which he found erotic (and admitted such to me) into a sequence of very bad poetry, 

Marty was an imitator, who played the part of a Poet far better than he wrote.  Largely unread, largely unaware of the Canons of Western literature, largely unfamiliar with any poems other than Estlin Cummings'.

During my adolescence, my mother was so offended by my desire to become a poet that she resorted to many subterfuges and treacheries to discourage my intentions.  This was one of them.  A recent offense to me reminded me of this.

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