{pf: poetry peeps pass notes to superman}

Welcome to Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of April! Here’s the scoop: We’ll be in conversation with a vintage, antique, or just plain old photograph. Of course, your photograph needn’t be from either of these archival photography sites, but take a poke around, and see what you find. Your poem should be based on an image which is at least, say, forty years old, or at least something you consider “old.” Once you’ve got your image nailed down, you’ve got a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on April 25th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll join the fun!

When we chose these poems to be in conversation with, I was excited – because the poems were offbeat and a bit amusing, and I thought this would be easy.

Literally EVERY TIME I THINK THAT I should snap my wrist with a rubber band or something. Writing poetry is never a slam dunk when I think it’s going to be. Never. Ever. Why do I keep deluding myself this way???

Clifton’s “four notes to Clark Kent” addresses the idea of a rescuer through varying personal lenses. Though she is still writing to him, Lucille Clifton seems to have misgivings about the dude who can leap tall buildings in a single bound… I mean, what good is that, her first poem seems to ask, when she’s dealing with more immediate issues between the four walls of her home? Who can save her from all of the broken dreams and emotional paucity that waits there, him? No – she doesn’t think so. She names him “tourist;” reminding the reader that he’s not from Metropolis – he’s a stranger, a literal alien. While she’s hanging by her fingernails from the edge of a ledge, waiting for rescue, he’s just visiting, isn’t he? Maybe he’s not really there to save her after all. While in her third poem, she appears to forgive him – and forgive herself – for just human and other. The idea of the Superman mythos has inflated him past life-sized and she graciously allows him to shrink. By her fourth poem, she openly decides he’s pretty hot, but I still don’t get the idea that the poet feels he’s all that super – just cute. She calls him by his Clark Kent moniker, referencing his other persona solely as an adjective rather than a name, which I found interesting.

I shared some of Clifton’s misgivings about Mr. “faster than a speeding bullet.” I didn’t grow up on Superman comic books, and the blandly handsome, lantern-jawed superhero in the movies didn’t particularly …convince me, as a kid. As a fellow four-eyes, I was completely OVER the trope of “dreamboat without his glasses,” and thought Clark and Superman looked exactly alike – because they WERE, of course.🙄 Further, his mild-mannered, awkward persona grated on my nerves (I somehow missed the point that he was acting so people wouldn’t equate him with his outgoing alter ego). He was noble to the point of ridiculousness, and I didn’t resonate with him as an American icon. Like Smokey the Bear, he somehow seemed to be just another childhood talking head in cartoon form who told you how to behave. He never seemed particularly heroic to me, so I realized that Clifton’s doubting had infected me, too. Who was this guy who was supposed to save us? And who were we, just …sitting there, waiting to be saved?

When we got together for our Sunday poetry chat, Cousin Mary Lee said she couldn’t find a lighthearted bone in her body and didn’t feel like she could speak to the poem. At which point I thought, “Oh, humor was an option!?” I didn’t have any lighthearted thoughts on Superman either. In my initial draft I had taken a deep dive into the idea of saviors, the idea of Americans exceptionalism, of Americans striding in to play savior – after like as not having started the conflict. I wrote about the learned helplessness of people who have lived with privilege for so long that they don’t ever think anything can happen to them, and about the non-SUPER-ness of people who stop voting and such. *cough* The poem was taking me somewhere I didn’t want to go, so I thought I’d sit down and try being funny – just – out of nowhere. I wanted to write about the really cheesy 80’s Superman movies I didn’t watch until decades later (they DID NOT age well). I wanted to write about Spanx underpants over spandex leggings and capes (“No capes!” screams Edna Mode in my brain) and battling wedgies while leaping over tall buildings in a single bound. I did NOT, however – I restrained myself! Sara probably did too. Tricia definitely wrote something classier, as did Laura. Mary Lee’s poem is here, and here’s Liz’s poem, Michelle K’s poem is here. More Peeps may be checking in throughout the day, so don’t miss the whole Clark Kent roundup. And for more poetry that fortunately doesn’t have anything to do with spandex and capes, visit the Poetry Friday round-up Marcie Flinchum Atkins’ blog. Thanks for hosting today, Marci.

While I didn’t write about wedgies, I did try to write amusingly, so… I thought about Lois Lane, who tried so hard to be cool about Superman, but… she just was not.

Notes Passed To Lois Lane (Probably by her editor, Perry White)

A bird, a plane – wait, what?
This SUPERficial scrawl
Is not your best reporting, Lo,
This needs an overhaul.

He’s SUPERMAN, he…does!
From dawn ’til dusk he slays
the dangers to Metropolis
that threaten disarray –

We stan a Man of Steel
God knows I respect hustle…
Just… write less on forehead curls
And shoulders bunched with muscle…

Okay, okay, I know and YOU know that Lois Lane Would Never, she was a thorough-going professional. But it still made me smile.

I’ll be honest – I couldn’t salvage this other poem. The ‘serious’ one was plunging down a lot of rabbit holes I don’t have the energy to follow, so I sort of tried to pull back on some of the over-emoting, and left it where it lay. Reminding myself that this poem is in conversation with the others is what helped me stay more on track — and while this doesn’t yet say what I need it to, it’s a start. If nothing else, I do believe that if we don’t hang together, we’re all going to hang separately, and despite my little red hats, I mean that across aisles and political divides. This is bigger than the red v. blue v. green color war, I’m afraid.

Notes In The Margin of The Daily Republic

Not any man would do, we’ll want SUPERman:
SUPERlative – from cape to brawny chest.
Spotlighting our best selves, and our SUPER land,
Our destiny to be forever blessed.
Granite jaw and steady stare – he’s sensational.
SUPERbly snaring manhood in his trap
With orphan-makes-good tropes. He’s educational
He models how to rise on our bootstraps…
…
Why an alien would show up when we’re losing,
To fight the thugs Metropolis can’t stop
No one ever seems to ask. It IS confusing
…The comics show folks screaming “Help!” nonstop,
And the victims standing, looking ’round for saviors,
Wringing hands instead of maybe calling cops…?

In MY book I’ve inserted on page borders,
Small hands cupped ’round a tiny screaming face
Which shouts, “People! Don’t just stand and wait for orders!”
In YOUR Daily Republic – your birthplace!
For future’s sake, speak up – protect what matters
Resist and rail against the treasonous.
One rock is small – a rock slide buildings shatter…
Join hands. We’ll be the ones to rescue us.

I’ll be ready Poetry Friday notes from a short beach glass hunting sabbatical, but I’ll definitely get around to answering any messages. I hope you take – and are taking – some time away to get outside and witness this slow turning of the seasons, as the earth wakes and stretches toward the possibility enshrined in Spring. Turn off the noise for a while, and just be – and then breathe. I plan to not just touch grass but touch rocks, possibly newts and beetles. (Anything squishier may require gloves.) While it’s true that no one is coming to save us, with any luck, and a bit of cooperation, there’s still enough to save of ourselves. Happy Weekend.