Here's a batch of anti-poems from the #1 anti-poet - Nicanor Parra (1914-2018) from Chile. I've also included my own anti-comments.
MODERN MAN
has fallen into a trap
he has only seven roads left
and none of them leads to Rome
-------------------- Sounds like Nicanor just returned from a suburban mall packed with busy shoppers or spent hours in bumper to bumper traffic or sat through a speech or you name it - chances are whatever you name is ugly as hell.
I'M NOT A SENTIMENTAL OLD MAN
a baby leaves me absolutely cold
I wouldn't take a baby in my arms
even if the world were caving in
every man scratches his own itch
I can't stand a family get-together
I'd rather be stuck in the eye with a sharp stick
than play with my nephews
my grandchildren don't move me very much either
what I mean is they set my nerves on edge
the second they see me come back from the coast
they come running at me with open arms
as if I were Santa Claus
little sons of bitches!
who the hell do they imagine I am
------------------- I wonder if Nicanor ever attended a high school reunion, sang Christmas Carols, visited Disneyland, was a member of a bowling league, danced the twist?
SOMEBODY BEHIND ME
reads every world I write
looking over my left shoulder
he laughs at my problems with no shame
a man with a swagger stick and tails
I look but there's nobody there
still I know someone is watching me
-------------------- Feeling paranoid, Nicanor? Maybe if I was living during a time when secret police and death squads routinely rounded people up to be tortured or shot, I' be looking over my shoulder too.
WHAT TIME IS IT
When a gravely ill man
comes around for a few seconds
And asks his relatives what time is it
--Gathered as if by magic
Around the deathbed --
In a voice that sets their hair on end
It means something is wrong
It means something is wrong
It means something is wrong
----------------- Can you imagine a dying man's last words: "What time is it?" Such a question signals something is most surely wrong with society. Those last words are right up there with: "Who won the ball game?" or "Where's my wallet?"
HELP!
I don't know how I got here:
I was running along happy as you please
My hat in my right hand
Chasing a phosphorescent butterfly
Who drove me crazy with joy
And suddenly zap! I tripped
I don't know what's happened to the garden
The whole thing went to pieces
My nose and my mouth are bleeding.
Honestly I don't know what's going on
Either give me some help
Or a bullet in the head.
---------------- Nicanor was enjoying life out in nature when he was pushed through his culture's meat grinder. No doubt he needs help, lots of help. If help is not forthcoming, there's always a gun handy courtesy of the right to bear arms.
IT'S CRYSTAL CLEAR
that I shouldn't come to the U.S.
--I'm not about to buy that crap--
ok then for the same reason
we ought to break relations with France
with Peru--with Bolivia--with Luxembourg
I shouldn't ever set foot outside of Chile
but who'd get fat on that.
------------------ Exactly right, Nicanor. No man, especially an anti-poet, is ever a hero in his own country.
WELL THEN
don't be confused
if you see me in two cities
at once
hearing mass in a chapel of the Kremlin
or eating a hot dog
in a New York airport
I'm the same person both places
although it seems absurd I'm the same person
--------------- Seems, Nicanor? It is absurd! When in your 103 years on this planet wasn't it all absurd?
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