Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Luke Kennard

Men Made of Words

Men Made of Words

Men Made of Words

a rondeau

Men made of words live in migraine hotels
And talk not of music, but speaker cables;
Stay up to drink whisky with red lemonade,
Point out the mistakes one other has made –
Of pronunciation, directions and sales.

Some compare charts before prints of Kandinsky;
Some pick on the barmaid – Nebraskan and pretty –
Their guiding philosophy never needs telling;
The Fauvists, so colourful: what is it they’re selling?
Art never hurts for the men made of words.

So if you, like I, often let down your guard
When you’re drunk in the hush of a theatre courtyard;
Or, forced to find work beneath travestied arches,
You find yourself under the weight of their glances,
Make your excuse while the handshakes are hard
And run for your life from the men made of words.



NOTES:

‘A note on the form,’ says the wolf. ‘It is a rondeau.’
       ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’ve written “A rondeau” underneath the title in
italics.’
       ‘You probably wouldn’t understand what a rondeau is,’ says the wolf,
‘because most of what you call poetry doesn’t even have line-breaks. This
is why I am frequently asked to provide poems for current affairs, peri-
odicals, commercial services and military organisations, whereas you are
asked to provide poems solely for personal gain and the sake of your so-
called career. The so-called status-quo rejects traditional form on grounds
that it is too traditional.’
      ‘It seems rather mean to businessmen,’ I say, ‘the poem, I mean.’
      ‘Businessmen are the diametric opposite of poetry,’ says the wolf.
‘Poetry is mud, businessmen are a hole.’
     ‘It’s just one of those poems where you try to make out that poets are
better than ordinary people because we’re more cultured and sensitive,’
I complain, opening a rocket lolly.
      ‘It may not be true in your case,’ says the wolf, ‘but then you are part
of the academic machine: you write favourable reviews of your friends
so they shortlist you for things and vice versa. And nobody buys your
books. Maybe you should try using a rhyme scheme once in a while,
that’s all I’m saying. Ooh, rocket lollies! Can I have one?’
      ‘This is the last one.’

Close

Men Made of Words

a rondeau

Men made of words live in migraine hotels
And talk not of music, but speaker cables;
Stay up to drink whisky with red lemonade,
Point out the mistakes one other has made –
Of pronunciation, directions and sales.

Some compare charts before prints of Kandinsky;
Some pick on the barmaid – Nebraskan and pretty –
Their guiding philosophy never needs telling;
The Fauvists, so colourful: what is it they’re selling?
Art never hurts for the men made of words.

So if you, like I, often let down your guard
When you’re drunk in the hush of a theatre courtyard;
Or, forced to find work beneath travestied arches,
You find yourself under the weight of their glances,
Make your excuse while the handshakes are hard
And run for your life from the men made of words.



NOTES:

‘A note on the form,’ says the wolf. ‘It is a rondeau.’
       ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’ve written “A rondeau” underneath the title in
italics.’
       ‘You probably wouldn’t understand what a rondeau is,’ says the wolf,
‘because most of what you call poetry doesn’t even have line-breaks. This
is why I am frequently asked to provide poems for current affairs, peri-
odicals, commercial services and military organisations, whereas you are
asked to provide poems solely for personal gain and the sake of your so-
called career. The so-called status-quo rejects traditional form on grounds
that it is too traditional.’
      ‘It seems rather mean to businessmen,’ I say, ‘the poem, I mean.’
      ‘Businessmen are the diametric opposite of poetry,’ says the wolf.
‘Poetry is mud, businessmen are a hole.’
     ‘It’s just one of those poems where you try to make out that poets are
better than ordinary people because we’re more cultured and sensitive,’
I complain, opening a rocket lolly.
      ‘It may not be true in your case,’ says the wolf, ‘but then you are part
of the academic machine: you write favourable reviews of your friends
so they shortlist you for things and vice versa. And nobody buys your
books. Maybe you should try using a rhyme scheme once in a while,
that’s all I’m saying. Ooh, rocket lollies! Can I have one?’
      ‘This is the last one.’

Men Made of Words

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