Sunday, 15 March 2015

Egg McMuffin

Poetry is dead he said
as he stared at me  
and munched at his McMuffin. 
(There is bread stuck in
between his teeth
and a spot of yoke upon his nose
and I suppose that I should tell him,
but instead gaze into those blazing eyes
as he fills my head with nothing.) 

He pontifies as he nibbles fries
(his ego all a-glowing):
You folk up north should not utter forth
of things you are unknowing. 
I find absurd you think the written word
is art in rhyme and meter,
hah (!) and if a girl can write sufficient prose,
well, I have yet to greet her. 

I don’t give a damn about these poetry slams
(nor do I, I interjected)
where drunken folk mumble poetic jokes
to those-intellectually-affected.
(He shakes his head and stops for breath now) 

(I speak I speak I speak!)
Ah sir (say I) we can’t let it die,
‘twas once all literature was poetry;
remember Gilgamesh and Beowulf,
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.

(I suppose so, he says as he texts nothing words…)

I add: Poetry is like a fine red wine,
so much better slowly sipped and savoured,
for poetry read once and rushed,
why, you miss its subtleties and flavours.

That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard (he says)
like all poets you are pretentious. 
And if I’ve offended you, well that is what I do;
I have no problem being contentious!

The fool he gloats as he grabs his coat
and with a Harrumph then off he goes,
with bread stuck ‘tween his stupid teeth
and egg running down his nose.

Anna :o]

Karin at Real Toads writes: The prompt, should you choose to accept it, is to write something inspired by a breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, coffee, snack eaten out, at the local diner, cafe, restaurant, fast food joint, even, if you wish, camp site.  

I mean this prompt to be as broad as a glass door held open by a very polite person--(you will note that in my own politeness, I make no reference to tall stacks, wideness, and hips.)  You should feel free to write from the perspective of diner, server, cook, table, plate, pancake.  If you want to write with a forked tongue, in other words, go ahead!  If you want to just go sit in a cafe and write whatever comes to mind, that's okay too.  (Just, maybe, smear some ketchup on your screen.)  

And so dear Karin – the above is my offering.  Y’know, although I (attempt to) write poetry, I do not consider myself a poet - strange maybe, but so am I…  Poets are those wonderful people who write wonderful things, masters of words.  So for me to write as if I was a poet – well maybe I am developing an ego…

Also entered at Poets United – with many thanks to the lovely Mary.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Glane23


Björn Rudberg said...

Ha.. I think he should have a whole egg crushed on his miserable head. He has not yet grasped anything,

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Anna, I love to see you writing and totally enjoyed this, especially the egg running down his nose.........

Mary said...

Yes, poetry is fine red wine...I hear you on that. It is something to be sipped and savored!

my heart's love songs said...

it's difficult to put the name "poet" to ourselves ~ i think of romantics sitting in a salon somewhere, the lovely words rolling off their tongues in rhyme and meter quite naturally.

in reality, if we write poetry then poets we must be, don't you think?

and i always like your writing ~ love the final line of this so much!

Outlawyer said...

Ha, and ah, and aah, Anna--you are a definite poet, whether or not you know it, this very clever poem is proof in the pudding, as it were. Much enjoyed the character development through the mcmuffin--egg on his face! Thanks. K.

Loredana Donovan said...

Poetry is alive but maybe it's not for everyone ~ the character in your poem certainly doesn't understand or appreciate it! An interesting dialogue-poem :)

kaykuala said...

Fantastic observation Anna! One would just munch away for such an ordinary happening. But you've weaved a beautiful story around it!


PT said...

some strong lines and some strong message in this verse ..A unique write a say!

Sumana Roy said... i love the close...unkempt men like him are not meant for poetry...

Anonymous said...

I think I've met him, only he was wearing a cheese hat, spilling a beer with one hand, while chomping on a an overloaded brat he held in the other. He had mustard on one cheek and ketchup on his chin. You know what they say about such individuals? That they attempted to write poetry and couldn't. Disgruntled, they now must justify their existence by taking pot shots at those of us who can and do,


humbird said...

Very tasty piece in all meanings...

hedgewitch said...

A very scathing portrait of someone we have all met in life--the pretentious, sententious know-it-all,opinionated...well, I could go on, but it would involve profanity. ;_) Thank you for dressing him in bread and egg yolk.

Donna@LivingFromHappiness said...

Anna this is poetry and you are a poet....I love your explanation of poetry here but he is an oaf and will never understand. I am sipping and savoring the words, the rhythm and the rhyme.

Jae Rose said...

I think he goes to show the ghastliness of what happens when you take poetry too seriously and call yourself a poet...i find it's the ones that done't who are the best poets ;)

R.K. Garon said...

Yup! I think I know this guy :-)
This piece put a smile on my Monday morning face.

totomai said...

you are very patient in dealing with him. i liked how you set up the setting and then showed your relationship with each other. i enjoyed the read

Martin said...


C.C. said...

Entirely the 'interruptions' and the way you have incorporated them into your poem. Very well written. Your poem needs to be re-read....sipped and savored again so one can taste the nuances and enjoy it fully :-)

Other Mary said...

This is fantastic! The culture of McDonald's indeed!

Maggie Jean said...

This is so delicious!

Kenn Merchant said...

Poetry has so many different meanings, and I love the way you've captured your understanding of the term. Poetry is a wonderful art. I too like the McMuffin, but I make sure the food doesn't crumble upon myself. Must have been a feisty eater that one.

Poppy said...

Being one who is attracted to rhyme in my own poems, I can't tell how much I enjoyed this: truly sipped and savoured!


grapeling said...

I'm with Bjorn :) ~

Heidi said...

Hey sweet Anna!

I don't consider myself a poet either (and many would agree with me), but I think you poet very well. I love the scene you've created in response to the prompt and how you always make me think.