I know. I know. I should be writing about pork-belly futures and utility deregulation and actuarial accuracy and Mayor Eddie’s troubles and the humor and drama and pathos of the Connecticut Siting Council.
But, it’s August. Why are you even here? Why aren’t you on some beach reading a trashy novel?
Oh. You are on a beach? Oh. You brought along your copy of the Business Journal because you couldn’t imagine a week without a Cohen column.
Thanks. That’s just great. So, I still have to write a column. Well, I’m not writing about commercial real estate or dysfunctional state legislatures or anything like that. You’re on vacation. You should be thinking about your tan, not worrying about how variable your variable annuity is.
How about poetry? That’s something that will get your mind off your job. Your boss may be many things, but he’s no poet, is he? When he tells you:
I need your report by noon.
I hope that’s not too soon.
But time is money
So, quick like a bunny,
I want analysis as sharp as a harpoon.
He’s not really being poetic. That was just an accident.
Speaking of poetry (don’t you just feel yourself relaxing?), this summer is the 121st anniversary of the poem, “Casey at the Bat,” by Ernest Lawrence Thayer. You remember that one. The big game. Runners on second and third. The crowd is rambunctious, sort of like at an annual meeting (sorry). And Casey’s up at bat.
“Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.”
I know. It’s a sad ending and you’re on vacation. But, count your blessings. The poem rhymed and it was about baseball.
I could have inflicted a poem on you by Wallace Stevens, an undeservedly famous poet who won lots of prizes and stuff, while toiling away as an insurance executive at the old Hartford Accident and Indemnity and Poems that Don’t Rhyme Co.
There’s a Wallace Stevens fan club in the area that just finished plopping down 13 stone markers along the two-mile route he walked to work every day. Each marker has a stanza from his poem, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.”
As sure as the surety bonds that old Wallace peddled, you won’t understand the poem. No one understands any of his poems. That’s why Stevens was so popular in the insurance industry. He wrote all the insurance contracts. They didn’t rhyme or make any sense. Perfect.
Here. Try it a bit of it for yourself.
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
See? I don’t get it. If I wrote something like that, hinting at unnatural sex between some man and woman and blackbird, the editor would write me an angry memo. And it wouldn’t rhyme.
By the way, editors do have their own poems. The most famous one describes an editor who dies and knocks on the Pearly Gates and tells St. Peter that she is an editor.
The Pearly Gates swung open wide,
St. Peter touched the bell — “Come in,” he said, “and choose your harp,
You’ve had your share of hell.”
Writers don’t think that poem is very funny. But at least it rhymes. Have a nice vacation.
Laurence D. Cohen is a freelance writer.
Reader response:
“Mr. Cohen is certainly entitled to his sophomoric vision of poetry. As a Hartford native who still cherishes a grasp of Hartford’s illustrious cultural and historic heritage, I can only hope and pray that casual readers of Mr. Cohen’s tirades against Wallace Stevens, one of the luminaries of that heritage, won’t conclude that he speaks for those of us who say “I’m from Hartford” with pride.” — Robert D. Rachlin, Downs Rachlin Martin PLLC
“In response to his disparaging remarks about Wallace Stevens and the Stevens walk, I would just like to say that I thought the “stones” were a wonderful addition to Hartford and made for a delightful walk. I visited Hartford last year precisely because of its connection to Wallace Stevens and enjoyed my walk greatly. I am not a poetry person and do not claim to understand Stevens’ poetry at all but it encourages one to look beyond oneself and to stretch. That is always important in life. I think Stevens’ poetry and the walk are great for Hartford.” — Dee Ford, Anchorage, Alaska
