`To Florida with a Guy Named Sean'

“How shall a new Attempter learn

Of different Spirits to discern,

And how distinguish which is which,

The Poet’s vein, or scribbling Itch?

Then hear an old experienced Sinner

Instructing thus a young Beginner.” 

So writes Jonathan Swift in “On Poetry: a Rhapsody,” a poem nearly three centuries old that reads like this morning’s assessment of the “poetry scene.” Not poetry but the wish to be thought of as a poet spawns armies of fakers and frauds. Never has our need for a Swift or Pope been more dire. As Swift reminds us: “All Human Race wou’d fain be wits, / And Millions miss, for one that hits.” My own “new Attempter” is my youngest son, David, age twelve, who titles his self-published inaugural collection Anecdotal Fantasy from a Skeptical Mind. He dedicates it to three of his friends and “to Patrick, who likes good poetry.” Here is my favorite, untitled, from the eight poems in the collection (all spelling, grammar, metrics, punctuation, rhymes and humor sic): 

“Has it ever crossed your mind

If you went to the North Pole, what would you find?

Santa has a bit of a gut

And turned into a first-class nut

Watching Seinfeld and the Brady Bunch

Eating his corn nuts, crunch crunch crunch.

The reindeer never take a day off

The light is going out in Rudolph

They lost their old friend Dancer

After a hard battle with cancer.

Mrs. Claus is long gone

She ran away to Florida with a guy named Sean

The elves are the saddest sight

Just looking at them fills you with fright

For when more and more kids begged for toys

Elves were made in the lab to please the girls and the boys

Things went very, very bad

And the elves went very, very mad

The workshop turned into Lord of the Flies

So if you ask for a fur coat

You might have some reindeer hides

So I beg and plead with my heart in my voice

Skipping Christmas would be a good choice!” 

Let’s give Swift the final word: “Be mindful when Invention fails, / To scratch your head, and bite your nails.”