The weather forecast from "No Time Like Now" (University of Pittsburgh Press) [by Andrei Codrescu]

I don't blow my own horn because I was born in the modest half of the 20th century in a country so overtly serious about writing, especially poetry, poets could be rendered invisible while their work was performed in stadiums by actors. In the U.S. where Hype is, like Inflation, a God, I realized what the score was as soon as I read Mark Twain on the subject. The Statue of Liberty only holds a torch instead of Gabriel's trumpet because the French built it. And Gabriel's trumpet was, of course, not made so that Gabriel could blow his own horn. Or mix his instruments. He had the Lord's PR agency for that. All things being teachable, I was also touched by the evident nostalgia of these verses by the brilliant, now no longer with us, Jim Gustafson: "They used to pump it for me/but now it's strictly self-service." Except for New Jersey and Oregon. Having just spent two hundred and fifty dollars to buy my own books from one of my esteemed publishers, I was heartened by a message from David Lehman to reproduce here one of my poems with a few lines about it. David Lehman is not just my friend, but a friend of poets and poetry. It was indeed he who suggested that I send my new book to Ed Ochester at the Pitt Poetry Series. This distinguished poet and publisher issued David Lehman's new poetry book, "Playlist" at the same time as my own "No Time like Now," so there are now two great books around. Here is my poem:

NO WEATHER HAIKU

Smart has a ceiling, stupidity has a floor.
Falling is faster climbing slow.
If you want out go for the door.
Whatever you do go in the door.
If you go out go out the door.
Some of it is history that bag of germs
and some of it is window-sills still wet with tears.
I love the doors of New York in the frigid haikus
of december. I have keys to them all.

This was evidently written in December and it's now mid-May in New York and freezing. Climate change is not caused by poems, but they can sure forecast. You will notice that this poem is attempting to overstress the ubiquitous idiocy of our meteo-political climate by shouting at the inmates (people) to do the obvious: go in and out the door and be brave. History, that bag of germs intentionally left coma-less if not comatose in the poem, is not about to succumb to its misery. Not in New York. I have the keys here, but if you need to go in and out don't ask me for permission. I hope you enjoy this crank I never forgot after moving back to New York half a century after I swore to never.

Comments

[The Best American Poetry]

"In the U.S. where Hype is, like Inflation, a God..."
Brilliant.
Many thanks, Andrei. -- DL

[Vincent Katz]

Great poem! I love "history that bag of germs"...