Craig Kurtz

Quatre Poésies

 

 

The Better Sort

 

Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!

—Robert Browning, “Fra Lippo Lippi.”

 

Some people think good poetry

is touchy-feelie therapy;

but we know better than that, chap —

that sort of posturing is crap.

 

We want good stories, of fine days —

who cares to wallow in malaise?;

your witty feuilletons, submit —

please spare us solipsistic shit.

 

Emotions are quite commonplace

and tedious in any case;

let’s have a decent comedy —

we are men of the world, aren’t we?

 

It’s in bad taste, complaints expressed

as if the hoi polloi knows best;

a pox on art full of despair —

let’s have art à la Molière.

 

We don’t mind tragedy per se

but Goethe is so démodé;

gad knows what suffering’s good for

but in this business, it’s a bore.

 

Let’s have satire in the mode —

repining’s middle of the road;

we’re sick of art that’s ‘relevant’

so stick it up your fundament.

 

Give us a cachinnating song —

nobody cares who’s done you wrong;

just take those grievances to court

and let us have the better sort.

Ornaments

 

Let’s hear it for the ornaments

that are adored by all the gents;

they’re soft and smooth and spherical

and oft get poets lyrical;

they’ve been around since time began —

why, Adam was their biggest fan;

there’s rather nothing more unique,

ergo guys can’t resist a peek;

although they are ubiquitous,

they’re rarely found superfluous;

concentric circles that protrude,

when dishabille they might seem lewd;

oft covered, but in such a way

that makes dudes look at them all day;

indeed, these shapes are magical

to render men insensible;

and, variation infinite! —

thus blokes are ‘indiscriminate.’

Some say that bigger is the best

but such thought’s now construed regressed;

petite can charm as well because

guys focus on areolas;

it’s definition and contrast

which holds attention so steadfast;

forsooth, the symmetry, as such,

is what makes them appeal so much;

plus, don’t discount the mystery

of symbols of fertility;

it’s true that gents are simple wags

to fall in love with what are bags;

or boobs or jugs or what-have-you,

these words are frivolous, it’s true;

it’s funny how there’s ridicule

placed on these forms that make lads drool;

perhaps it’s insecurity

that dames can get dudes so silly;

for, who’s the bubbie, I ask you,

to be dumb over fat tissue?

Let’s hear it for the ornaments

that make wise men lose common sense.

 

 

 

Profligacy

 

If you’re going to be in debt

you might as well be profligate;

whatever problems may ensue,

they’re better faced in clothes brand new;

you’ll never get a decent loan

unless you strike up the right tone;

make sure expensive you exude,

assume the bon ton’s consuetude;

good breeding is ostensible

so use it as collateral;

make sure you live beyond your means

and circulate in limousines;

you might not own a pair of socks

but who knows from the opera box?1

The key is do it in the mode,

your credit’s good as your zip code;

to have vast debts is a sure sign

you traffic with the best bloodline;

although you’re broke, thou hedonist,

your luck may change while playing whist;

the trick is not to lose your nerve

’tho dinner’s but a scant hors d’oeuvre;

so perish the thought you’d be gauche,

hence: Qu’ils mangent de la brioche;

your check’s refused? Now, look agape

then redouble doubling a cape;2

you’ll know your best friends by the way

devoirs of yours they don’t convey;

and, when at last, the crash alights,

heed not bathetic, trite insights;

I’d worry not of debtor’s jail,

just tell ‘em you’re too big to fail;

so what you owned not what you spent —

it’s never stopped the government.

 

1. “The young man in the balcony of a theatre who displays a gorgeous waistcoat for the benefit of the fair owners of opera glasses, has very probably no socks in his wardrobe, for the hosier is another of the genus of weevils that nibble at the purse.” — Honoré de Balzac, Le Père Goriot.

 

2. “In the language of the smart set, ‘doubling a cape’ in Paris means either to go a long way round to dodge a creditor, or to keep out of his vicinity.”

— Honoré de Balzac, Illusions Perdues.

 

 

 

Cephalic Oil

 

Whatever happened to my hair? —

my puissance is so threadbare;

I say, I need an antidote

before the women get the vote.

 

Cephalic oil’s better than

Macassar1 to grow hair, good man;

you rub it in, down to the root

and hope anon you’ll be hirsute.

 

It’s made from hazel nuts, cold-pressed —

a man should sport a decent crest;

receding hairline got you galled? —

a pox upon this going bald.

 

Nasturtium smeared into the pate

was said to make hair fecundate;

like nettles used by country folks,

these cures turned out to be a hoax.

 

Tricopherous has alcohol

and spanish fly as a heal-all;

although it doesn’t make hair thrive,

it’s fun to drink, should you survive.

 

Eschew, my friend, these quackeries

such as pomades from yucca leaves;

Cephalic oil’s the one tack

to get your shrinking manhood back.

 

But get it while it’s still allowed —

these times don’t like men well-endowed;

you’ve read the news, it’s in the air —

the prohibition of hair care.

 

The vote, and now an amendment —

what won’t these suffragettes prevent?;

aye, buy it up before it’s banned —

without your hair, you’ll be unmanned.

 

1. Rival hair growing tonics in Honoré de Balzac’s Grandeur et Décadence de César Birotteau.

 

 

 

Craig Kurtz lives at Twin Oaks Intentional Community with artist/collaborator Anni Wilson. Recent work in Blue Unicorn, Iconoclast and, upcoming, William & Mary Review.  See also https://kurtzandwilson.blogspot.com.