William Southold | Opinion Columnist |The Southold Report
“Speaking fiction to power one story at a time.”
I woke up early this morning with a thought. I had once gone to poetry slams and read my poems, and I hadn’t thought about that in quite a while. I wonder if people are doing poetry slams by Zoom now, I doubt if many are taking place in person with the new Covid restrictions. Sure enough, I Googled it, and people are doing just that.
“Whatcha up to this morning, Southold?” I heard behind me.
“Nothing. Just doing a little research.”
“On what?”
I quickly closed my computer and looked down at our dog. “Oh, this and that,” I said.
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with poetry slams, would it?” she asked.
I didn’t stop to make something else up. Doesn’t work on this intrepid reporter at my feet.
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Now how did you know that?”
“You were muttering in your sleep, how much you missed doing the poetry slam thing.” She looked up at me. “I kinda miss that too. I was quite a help to you, as I remember.”
“You were. You have been and continue to be.”
“One must find a need and try to fulfill it in times like these. It’s just a way of coping.”
“Well . . .” I said, hesitating to ask.
“Go ahead, spit it out man.”
“Well, I was thinking about the next couple of months, and how nasty things might get, with the election I mean.”
“Indeed. There’s no telling how low Trump might go, to what depths he will sink, when attacking Biden. And Biden’s not a man to get into a rhetorical limbo contest, especially with someone like Trump.”
“I agree completely. And I was trying to capture some of that in a poem.”
“Let’s hear what you got.”
“OK. It’s just a start.”
“That’s fine, let’s hear it.”
I opened my computer and read from the screen.
“We are about to enter a time of fear
When truths do battle with lies held dear,
When a president lives what he denies,
As he boldly crafts his web of lies.”
“Very good. I like it!”
“But I’m kinda stuck right there.”
“Let me think,” she said. “I like that ‘web of lies’ thing. Catchy. Should be the title, maybe.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, let me think,” she said.
I could see her little head bobbing up and down in thought. Up and down, and a little side to side. She stopped with a final nod of approval.
“OK,” she finally said. “How about this?” and proceeded to recite:
“Now isn’t Biden in a bind?
Lies sprint quickly, leave truth behind.
Is our country up for this?
Will it judge and then dismiss?
Or will people just wash their hands
Of this whole mess, not take a stand?
Against a President who hardly tries,
When he crafts his web of lies.”
She paused for a second. “Not bad, not bad,” she said.
“Not bad! It’s damned good!” I said.
“Feel free to use it.” She turned and started to leave the room.
“I will. And thank you. I’m going to credit you as co-author.”
She was walking slow but somehow she made it look like she screeched to a halt. She turned around.
“Now let’s not go crazy here,” she said. “You start saying that your dog helped you write a poem and they’ll haul you off to the looney bin.”
I took her point. “How about I say our dog inspired me? How’s that?”
“Hmmm. That might work. I am a fountain of inspiration.”
She turned and left the room, and I went back to work. So if you read this story, let’s just keep it to ourselves. Dogs spouting poetry. Ridiculous.
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