This year marks the 10th anniversary of the publication of Jan Beatty’s “Dear American Poetry.” A hilarious clapback to the poetry publishing industry, this poem is as delightful today as the first day I encountered it.
Dear American Poetry,
I see you’re publishing:
straightman/straightman/white white white how
nice.
Are you kidding me?
Best American Poetry, I’m bored to death—is anyone
alive out there?
Your sonnet is impotent,
and I
have a hard-on.
Here’s your bloody sonnet:
cŭnt cúnt/cŭnt cúnt/cŭnt cúnt/cŭnt cúnt/cŭnt cúnt/
thĕ née/dlĕ díck/thĕ née/dlĕ díck/thĕ née-/
American poetry, tell your mother
you’ll be home late—
if anyone’s out there waiting for you to lick them good,
it’ll be a long night.
I was once fucked by an intellectual in iambic pentameter:
my hand was better, and more responsive.
your friend,
Jan Beatty
from The Switching/Yard (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2013)