"Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance."

–Carl Sandburg

What the fuck does that mean, Carl? Are you stoned? Do you have “back pain” and a medical marijuana card? Is that a burrito in your pocket or do you just have the munchies?

I learned Carl’s meaningless quote in the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle I just finished. The theme was quotes about poetry and there were ones from E.E. CUMMINGS, Pablo Neruda, and a few others. One guy was called Osbert Sitwell. How great is that? Osbert Sitwell.

“How does Osbert sit?”

“Well, my friend. He sits well.”

Had I done this puzzle 22 years ago, I may have named my son Osbert Stillwell Kindt, rather than Hadrian Michael Kindt. Back then, I probably would’ve thought Carl’s quote was profound, too, rather than the silly non sequitur it is (just barely that, too).

Osbert Sitwell. Os.bert.Sit.well.

One quote almost rose to the level of humor: “Poetry is like fish–it’s only good when it’s fresh.” Don’t recall what bard said that but it doesn’t matter because it wasn’t Dylan Thomas.

If it ain’t Dylan Thomas, it just doesn’t matter. Dylan wasn’t in the puzzle, so even the puzzle didn’t matter.

Poetry is like an echo asking a shadow to dance, huh?
Maybe it’s like a shadow dancing to an echo
or a dance shadowing an echo
or an echoing ask dancing to a shadow.

One time I sat on my couch and said “Pliers” over and over again until the word had become hollowed of all meaning and sense and was rendered like the fat from a cube steak into a drab little vocable.

“Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers.”

It became a noise, a squawk, like something a duck would say if you accidentally sat on him.

“Pliers!”

“Oh, sorry little buddy. Didn’t see you there.”

Constant repetition strips information away, as we see repeatedly in politics and other forms of entertainment. Carl achieved it in one go, however.

Kudos, I guess.