‘Advice from the Untalented’ and Other Poems by Sally Cook

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Advice from the Untalented

They smugly said I’d never make much money
From playing with my words and making art,
That it would be a waste to spread such honey
So any fool could tear the thing apart.

“Forget it! You have always been contrarian.
There’s money to be made and you’d be right
As an accountant, teacher or librarian.
You’ve got your back, your feet are good, your sight
Is sure. Why waste these on this silly dream?
A decent mattress beats a lumpy bed.
Instead of linen coarse in which you scream,
You’ll muffle tears in silken sheets instead.
They only pay an artist when he’s dead!”

I’m far too mean to die—I’ll wait, I said.

—from Lucid Rhythms

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Literary Wildlife

When passing through the woods you sometimes see
A baleful eye or two, deep in a tree,
Just looking down on, sneering at your rhymes;
You sense they think all form and scansion crimes.

Snakes slither up each stanza, wait to squeeze
All meaning into every passing breeze.
Sly beetle shapes weave grasses in a rope—
To trip you up, they’ll criticize a trope.

The next to come are bureaucratic owls.
Who? Editors and critics, mean old fowls,
Sitting in judgment, looking down their beaks,
To give your poems little pecks and tweaks.

Most anything that smacks of language that
Is strong will cause a bitter little bat
To swoop down on your writing, take a bite,
Transform it into something he might write.

In hidden caves they squeak in unison,
But not one creature, when the squeaking’s done,
No, none of these pathetic little nerds
Can say just how your writing’s for the birds.

Assorted snails trail slime across the page
As webs are stretched to stop you at each stage.
I think the worst are deer who stand around,
Do nothing, roll their eyes and paw the ground.

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Revising the Sabines

Grandmother and mother saw
How quickly this bad girl could draw
Her version of the art of love.
What could this child be thinking of?

Of course it wasn’t what she ought
To do, and there was little thought,
But what was high art in their eyes
A little child should not revise.
Re-paint the rape of Sabine Women?
Simple. Every hair and dimple
On the nipples of the women
Only made them seem more human.

I wish I had that drawing of
My seven-year-old take on love.
The painting did not matter much—
My eye, superior to touch,
Took in the turmoil of a scene;
The plump pressed up against the lean.
The tumult of those bodies there
Engaged my earnest, questioning stare
The way some other children scrawl
Their future on a walk or wall.

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The Errant Child

She was the one who couldn’t dance,
Whose foot turned inward in high shoes.
And in the third grade, wet her pants
When faced with the astounding news
That earth revolved, and not each cloud.

So, she was ousted from the crowd—
There’s always one who won’t atone.
The solar system’s set in stone;
Of this, no one could so persuade her;
No moving planet could dissuade her.
She still thought clouds moved round the earth
And thought earth an immobile girth.

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A former Wilbur Fellow and six-time Pushcart nominee, Sally Cook is a regular contributor to National Review, and has appeared in venues as varied as Chronicles, Lighten Up On Line, and TRINACRIA. Also a painter, her present works in the style known as Magic Realism are represented in national collections such as the N.S.D.A.R. Museum in Washington, D.C. and The Burchfield-Penney, Buffalo, NY.