Blurbs from winners for winners, the world
That not only converts resources
Out of fairy numbers, but numbers
Out of creatively arranged words,
We are lost, without the usual
Messiness of haunting, a weapon
That both wounds and saves. This is a world
Like many worlds, where competitors
Must display and then cooperate
To patrol the rules of admission,
Praise, and the raising up of future
Competitions—this calm, courtly world
Of the academic troubadours,
Who also joust, who also mentor,
Who also market fine souvenirs.
It can’t be easy. Not since the Tang
Has there been such an environment
For poetic meritocracy,
Although the Tang took it much further,
To the real courts and halls of power,
Actual entrance exams for fame,
No joke. The best usually failed them.
Where were we? Oh, yes. The messiness
Of haunting. Fine phrase, rather wasted
Log rolling for a former mentor,
Perhaps. Who can keep track of who taught
Who around whose table round with whom?
It’s a tangle. If a giant pulled
One runner up from the berry patch,
Half an acre of soil would follow,
Roots and fungus to far horizons.
No, that’s not it. It’s mixed. Everything
Is. The thing is, someone always finds
A way to make a living singing,
Talking too much, reading and writing,
Digging around for simples in dirt.
But somehow the competition’s not
Just in the rewards of the living,
No more than fields serve only farmers.
These words themselves, these phrases ourselves,
Are up to something messy, haunting.
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