Before the Internet, before the search
engines, Tullius Menard was a person of substantial worth, for
he’d memorized most all the facts. When he was young, Tullius decided to earn
his way in life by knowing all the data — a considerable task
indeed. So he wasted no time with reasoning or understanding or
appreciating or wondering. He’d build nothing, design
nothing, fashion nothing, imagine nothing, analyze nothing —
he’d only know the facts.
He’d never swim the river, he’d always stay on shore. He’d memorize near all the facts, he’d know most stuff — and more.
Who wrote this? Who said
that? Definition of this? Definition of that? When? The formula?
Eventually it happened.
Tullius knew it all and sold it, he spewed out facts for fee. Before the engines came, and spit out facts for free.
They asked him distance,
“here” to “there.” He knew it in a minute,
he knew it to the mile — but, they noted, when he said it, he said
it sans a
smile. And then search engines
came to be — and spewed forth facts for free.
The time was bleak for Tullius, his shine went dull inside. Where once he was the kingpin, now he’s mostly “died.”
I crossed paths with
Tullius Menard only twice, so my recall of him was vague, undefined
— he had no outline.
I could not see him short, I could not see him tall. I could not picture Tullius, I knew him not at all.
To me, he was shadow
— writing no plus or minus into the equation — and so
it surprised me when he called and asked for help. Why me? Because, he explained, I was
the only person he knew who never trucked with “fact,”
who always shunned reality — who lived outside the pack.
He was hoping to be useful
again — useful, independent of data.
To earn his way fact-free —
and so he queried me. It took awhile to think it through, but in a week, I thought I knew.
“It seems to me,”
I told him, “that poetry is where you ought to be. Both the poet and
the poem can be of use — fact-free.”
But I did not tell Menard, that poetry is hard. I’d tried it all my life; it caused me only strife. Today Menard is poet, a laureate, I’m told. And I am not a poet; —
my words do not take hold. Now I read his poems — to learn, to someday do poems well. But I’ll never be a poet, my words will never sell.
I want to be a poet; it leaks in when I write. But I have no poet talent; it’s hardly worth the fight. I suffer as a poet, with words that ring obtuse. So I pilfer language elsewhere; I parrot Dr. Seuss. I cannot be a poet, no matter how long the time.
I’ll never be a poet; my thoughts all end — in rhyme.
Unlike me, Tullius Menard
blossomed as a poet. Here’s his prizewinning work titled
“My Freedom Born”:
Google — this Ask — that Dot — com
Yahoo! I am fire during rain, I am unfolded
What the hell?
This article appears in Feb 2-8, 2006.
