Poseurs...
Years ago while attending a poetry slam in Charlottetown , Prince Edward Island there was a lot of talk about Milton Acorn. Loads of folks were going on about how they "knew him" and "what a great guy he was." I remember, when I was growing up, that most people avoided Milton Acorn. He did have many friends, but to most people in Charlottetown he was “that crazy guy, what writes pomes.”
I even heard he had once been asked to leave Henderson and Cudmore haberdashery because they thought he was a vagrant, when all he wanted to do was buy a leather jacket. Apocryphal, perhaps, but there is no denying that Milton Acorn was a hulking presence. He would go to the farmers' market on a Saturday and people would whisper and make way for him.
But at this poetry event everybody was his friend. This was years after his death of course, and I thought this was stupid. All I know is that I was afraid of Milton Acorn and I thought most of these poets were as well. So I wrote this poem. Not the best thing to come out of Charlottetown, but we all have to be a poet at some point in our lives.
Posture
People gather ‘round
to honour the homeless
poet.
No generosity for him
as he stumbled up Queen Street
reeking of liquor communion.
“The People's Poet?
HA, I'd never fuckin' know it.”
Now we all swear friendship in
death.
No longer able to deny
his quick memory we blow smoke in his ears.
Leaving quietly from the back of the room,
Raven
picks his bones.
January, 1992