We Hardly Knew Me

(Inspired by assorted obituaries in The Mississippi Press.)


Friend, ex-husband, lapsed agnostic, middle-aged white guy, all these
words described Joe Rogers, who went home with the angels (perhaps while kicking and screaming) on [insert date here].

He was preceded in death by generations of ancestors he never could manage to trace on the Internet; pet cats Tiger, Penny, Son, Taco, Clouseau and others whose names became but misty memories, including one he backed over in the family car, for which he never forgave himself. Ever.

Mr. Rogers was born on June 28, near the middle of the 20th century,in Moss Point, Miss., and attended public schools there. The first three years he spent at Charlotte Hyatt Elementary (named for a teacher of his daddy’s); then to a middle school named for Dr. R. Carl Eley Sr., perhaps the oldest person he ever met; then junior high followed by high school, where he cut more classes than teachers (or his parents) ever knew but graduated without incident.

He gained admission to the University of Mississippi, where, despite pre-admission testing that indicated potential facility as an undertaker, he studied journalism. In that field he found gainful if unspectacular employment throughout his life, allowing him to indulge in his primary passions: Beatles trivia; Andy Griffith Show reruns; travel to Britain; competitive endeavors including tennis and pool; and the consumption and occasional manufacture of malt beverages.

He was a longtime member of the First Baptist Church of Moss Point, though,except to attend the first in his series of weddings, he basically stopped going at age 15 because of strong doubts about the existence of God. In his late 30s he renewed his association with a church, though not Baptist and while retaining strong doubts about the existence of God as a guy in the sky with a beard. Taoism became a guiding philosophy, despite its not-infrequent imagery of guys with beards.

Those left to cherish his memory [may] include a wife who is wondering whether he actually told anybody else that he wanted the nontraditional funeral she’d better be giving him. And the answer is that he meant to, so maybe he did.

Poetry Is Crap

Excuse the hyperbole of the headline. A more nearly accurate representation of my view would be something like Most Poetry Is Crap, or Contemporary Poetry Is Crap, but as you can see those lack the same punch.


This is not a new opinion but one that is reinforced every time I am so foolish as to read any of the poetry offerings in The New Yorker, my favorite magazine. I give you an example from the current issue, titled “Eh?”:

Eh he said and she
dreamed eh. It was
like that between them.

It goes on a good bit after that, and I invite you to read the rest, if you have masochistic tendencies or this is your religious season for self-flagellation.

Curiosity led me to check out the poetry of another poet, Elizabeth Alexander, selected by Barack Obama to compose an occasional poem for his inauguration. Here’s the start of her poem titled “Blues”:

I am lazy, the laziest
girl in the world. I sleep during
the day when I want to, 'til
my face is creased and swollen,
'til my lips are dry and hot. I
eat as I please: cookies and milk
after lunch, butter and sour cream
on my baked potato...

I don’t know about you, but to me that does not say “I am ready to follow in the footsteps of Robert Frost.” It says, “Here are my FaceBook ramblings for the day.”

If I must have poetry, give me the kind I read in college lit classes. Give me Pope, Auden, Thomas.

Short of that, at least make it rhyme.