Poetry 'n' Such with Paul Piatt

Gentle, yet heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life that is the IWS website.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor Paul Piatt here once again, in order to share with you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

Today during our monthly and continuing journey of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I introduce you to a fellow sommelier of intoxicating words, my friend and fellow poet, Vincent St. Millay.

Vincent hails from the rich and resplendent rolling hills of the eastern Kentucky coal mining cottage town, of Pikeville, KY., and writes in a tone and temper that reflects the austere background, and prevalent communal illiteracy in which his familial rearing took place.

Whenever I talk to Vincent at this time of year, he undoubtedly oratorically waxes lovingly in timbre and song much like that of the lucid and lyrical tones of a happily impregnated indigo bunting, as he verbally relives the festive Thanksgiving celebrations he experienced while growing up in a town of 6,892 people who were all related to one and other.

And while much of his poetry is sprinkled and written on the bias of good times for all, Vincent, in his award winning book from 1994, Maybe I’d Be Happier If Didn’t Smoke Bluegrass, sums up Thanksgiving from a different point of view…

That of the turkey…

View of a Turkey*

The turkey lay on a barrow dead.
It weighed, Eustis said, as much as three of Aunt Sheila’s head.
Its eyes closed, pink white feathers.
Its trotters stuck straight out.
Such weight and thick pink bulk
Set in death seemed not just dead.
It was less than lifeless, further off, but us it will fed.
It was like a sack of wheat.
I thumped it without feeling remorse.
One feels guilty insulting the dead,
Walking on graves. But this turkey
Did not seem able to accuse.
It was too dead. Dead without a head.
A poundage of lard will cook it up nicely.
No more dignity, just a few spicelies
It was not a figure of fun.
Too dead now to pity, but man, oh yum!!
To remember its life as he cackled about
Of earthly pleasure that had been cut out
Seemed a false effort, and off the point.
Too deadly factual. Its weight
Oppressed me — how could it be moved?
And the trouble of cutting it up!
The gash in its throat was shocking, but not pathetic.
And when I did cut him, I became apoplectic
To catch a strong gobbler
That was faster and nimbler than a cat,
Its squeal was the rending of screwing a chick who was fat.
Turkeys must have hot blood, they feel like ovens.
Their bite is worse than a horse’s —
They chop a half-moon clean out.
They mock you and curse you with their evil poultry shout.
Distinctions and admirations such
As this one was long finished with.
I stared at it a long time, and knew it would be delicious…ith
We scalded it clean
Scalded it and scoured it like a doorstep…

And then, we gave thanks, and ate it like ravenous wolves.

Feasting upon the death of a turkey, cranberries in their hemorrhoidal glory, and a Jell-O mold that looked like a liver gone bad.

Happy Thanksgiving gentle readers!!

For now, as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt
mattmaniws@ymail.com
@mattman_iws

*With apologies to one of my favorite poets, the late Ted Hughes…