Soapbox

Conjunction Junction

Ladies and gentlemen,
spectators and poets,
I rise tonight  in praise of the article, the conjunction
and of the gentle letter "A".

Like you I have heard the lessons
passed on by too many novice teachers of writing,
their diplomas still new on the wall.
I have heard the gosple of poetry as a purely enigmatic art form.
It is preached by men with balding pony tails and questionable personal hygiene,
sipping espresso in seedy cafes,
that a poem that makes sense
is mere pabulum for the massses.
And, like you, I have witnessed the carnage of syntax and sense
that can result from strict adherence to these fundamentalist beliefs.

My fellow writers of verse-
I come before you tonight to suggest that the word "the"
is not a thing to be shunned, but rather embraced,
for the lowly article and the simple conjunction
are the glue that holds language in place.
It is my belief,
my fellow explorers of the remote back country and high, craggy reaches of muse
that the pronoun, the preposition and even the unpreposessing period
can be the foundation of understanding and enlightenment.

I believe that a poem, like a car, has many parts
which are complex and bewildering to the casual observer:
catalytic converters, labyrinthine electrical systems,
convoluted transmission and enigmatic differentials.
I submit to you that these constructs are the nouns and verb-age of poetry
and like car parts, it is not always necessary to understand them,
to appreciate them.
It follows that if adjectives are the leather upholstery, burled walnut dash,
heated power mirrors and six-speaker stereo system of verse,
then the lowly conjunctions, articles and pronouns
are the nuts and bolts and superglue that hold the machine together
and enable the listener to glide along the highways to understanding.

For a pile of parts,
no matter how complex their engineering or luxurious their appearance,
will not transport your friends from here to there,
and a pile of words, no matter their lovely shape and pleasing juxtaposition
will not take your audience where you are trying to go!

A poem is a tower we build to lift our listeners, along with ourselves
to the apex of lyrical enlightenment;
our apotheosis from mere ground-dweller to the divine.
And if some build their towers a bit too high for the rest of us to breathe
the rarified air at their dizzying heights,
no matter.
For when the tower is constructed with empathy for the reader
and liberal use of verbal mortar and nails
we can at least admire the beauty of line and form
even if we rise only a bit above sea level.
And perhaps at some later date
we might yet puzzle our way up the winding staircase
and attain the author’s point of view.

But the poet who only piles interesting words higher and higher
with no attempt to connect the vocabulary in anything resembling human conversation
constructs only a pile of words:
provocative to regard
but un-enticing, even dangerous to climb.

In some cases, understanding is not even their goal.
Some poets are of that breed
who scatter words like New Year’s Eve confetti
in an attempt to convey
only the impression of their own profound intelligence
and formidable spiritual depth,
believeing the listener will think that they do not understand the work
only because they are not yet worthy.

I would remind my fellow writers that all too often
absolutism in pursuit of such linguistic fragmentation
engenders in the listener- not humble awe,
but a mad urge to rush the stage and overturn the lectern
or, in the more dexterous,
thoughts of fashioning some sort of noose from drinking straws
 to bring a quick end to this tyranny of words.

And it is with keen memory of this very desire fresh in my own breast
that I would exhort this august assemblage tonight
that there is no sin in explaining what you mean,
and that many a well-intentioned verse
could benefit from a more liberal application of the word "The".

Thank you, Madame Moderator.
I now surrender the floor and my remaining time to the next writer.