BALLAD BLUE

I'm in a town I did not build,
my room is rather mean.
The fleas are leaping 'round and 'round -
my body's not that clean.

I stopped at Freddy's for the cure,
the cost was not too high.
I cannot scratch another spot -
I'd rather see them die.

I'm not an outcast in this town:
Typhoid Mary who?
I slipped and fell, but who has not -
that's why this poem's not blue.

I'll spray my room, and scrub my face
until my life is new.
I'll stay away from Smoky Hell -
make all my dreams come true.

I'll stay inside and write a book
about the world I knew:
The streetwise boys and moonlight girls -
their eyes were baby-blue.

My room is small, my pockets bare,
yet I write this poem for you.
The grungy loner took a bath -
I'm fit for Powell's - it's true.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

JANIS JOPLIN SAVED MY WRETCHED LIFE!

It was 1978 (I think)
and my hair was
too long

and my skin a mess:
people called me
pizza face

and thought they
were being clever.
Never mind that

I had (at least I
thought) the worst
case of acne

in Chicago. So I
dropped out of
high school and

meeting up with
my friends. I
only went

out after dark. And
hotfooted it home
to my small room.

And read at least
1001 library books:
Most were penned

by famous poets. But
I also started to
read biographies

about other
misfits and
outsiders.

And Janis Joplin
(in 1978) was
still up for grabs.

Most straight folks
(apart from those that
believed drugs were

the only way to achieve
Nirvana) seemed
to either

love her or hate her. Big
time. The hard core
Christians especially

loved to use her as an
example of what "sin"
will do to a person.

Given that I was already
damned forever (a ghastly
homosexual!)

I felt protective of
Janis. And identified
with her outcast

status. And I must have
listened to her Greatest
Hits on

8 Track (do you remember
those?) at least a 1002
times.

And read every book about
her I could find. And
my small room was

plastered with Janis posters
(some of them I designed
myself).

Until my world became a
shrine to her memory. And
folks shook their heads,

and were in awe of my respect
for her: "She was just a
drug addict - is that

somebody worth so much
time and effort?" Yes,
I'd say.

Because she put all the
small town bigots to
shame:

The ones that told her
she was ugly and
had no talent:

And guess what? People
are singing a
different

tune now. Even the fools
in Port Arthur, Texas.
Sort of reminds me

of what happened to
Frances Farmer in
Seattle. But

we won't go there
tonight. I'll
save

that for another poem.
All I want to say now
is this:

I am alive today
because of Janis.
She made being a

so-called freak
a beautiful thing:
and puts all those

"perfect" ones to
shame. Because of
her immense courage

and talent. Because of her
pitted (and beautiful)
face.

Because she earned the right to sing the blues.

© 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

LIE

I'm still struck by the
irony of it all: How
I'd recently put the
picture of the two
of us in a special
frame I'd found
at Ace. LOVE
IS FOREVER
carved in the
hard wood.

Now
one day later
I am betrayed
forever by a
man who thinks
nothing of being
kind to my
enemies. Welcoming
back the beast into
my parlor. Making
sure I'm an easy
target for the next
brutal attack.

And I sit here and
wonder what
sort of sick
world is this I'm in:
a pair of lovers
housed in a
handsome frame.
Your strong arms
holding me close
for the throwaway
camera. And the
only thing forever
is the terrible lie
carved in the
hard wood.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

VAN GOGH’S CROWS

If I should die
as the sun sets
and the crows fly

will you forget me?
If I should die
as my blood drips

and the saints cry
will you remember me?
After the paint's dry

and the critics lie
and the crows die
will you forget me?

After I die
and a new sunrise
and the crows fly

will you remember me?

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

CAN POETRY CHANGE THE WORLD?

I believe a good poem can change the world — one person at a time. I believe a good poem can give one hope. I believe a good poem can give one strength. I believe a good poem can help somebody feel less alone. I believe a good poem can inspire forgiveness. I believe a good poem can help one cross a difficult bridge. I believe a good poem can open one's ears to music, and make one want to dance.

I believe a good poem is like a prayer — it can help one see the moon and stars — on a very dark night. I believe a good poem can change the world — one person at a time. In fact, this beautiful and simple late poem (by Anne Sexton: 1928—1974), changed my life for the better: It made me focus less on myself, and more on the world. It made me both happy and sad. It made me want to live. It made me want to become a poet. Isn't it ironic?

WELCOME MORNING

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry 'hello there, Anne'
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean, though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
to a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So, while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter in the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.

—Anne Sexton

Essay © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell