~for Marion~
all poets are junkyard scavenger connoisseurs
who wear suits to Manhattan faculty afternoon tea parties,
broken-in jeans to Brooklyn midnite poetry slams,
regalers, tall tale storytellers, subway words pickpockets
of the extra-ordinary,
claiming innovations but from all saints stolen,
insights inside other's waste,
refusing to acknowledge the true owner's title
by fusing other's refuse.
the original recyclers,
junkyard dog liars,
willful sufferers of the plague of overhearing,
exceptional excerpters of the gems of coal dust noise,
"Connoisseur of old thoughts
Bound in new gilt bindings"*
them's me.
~
12:37am may eighth
Collectors
by Marion Strobel
The barnacle of crowds—
Like a tuck
On a finished skirt, unnoticed—
He collected his material
Covertly:
A ragpicker,
A scavenger of words.
And the gleanings
Of his hearing
He would costume
In his own words,
And parade before
A listener.
So that now,
Across the tea-cup,
He was telling
Of his research,
Of his study,
Of his deep thought-out
Conclusions.
And the lady,
Connoisseur of old thoughts
Bound in new gilt bindings,
Smiled approval
At the finding
Of another curio
To place
In her long gallery.
This poem is in the public domain.
Marion Strobel was born in 1895.