The Poets Don't Write Sonnets Anymore

My book of ethnographic narrative, cultural commentary, whimsy, smarm and tropic criticism was launched on Sept. 28, 2008 at Galiano Island Books.  For information about ordering a copy see www.retreatisland.com and follow the links to MJT books or write me at doctorzogo@gmail.com.  

It's published by Plume of Cockatoo Press which takes its name from a sonnet I wrote doing fieldwork with the Dane-zaa First Nations.  As part of our genealogical research for the Dane-zaa, we were asked to present our findings to band members in a hotel meeting room in Fort St. John.  We found a meeting room, but when we arrived an oilman's convention had taken up every room in town.  The only possibility that remained was the Mackenzie Inn, once the classiest place in FSJ but now owned by bikers.  The pub was called "The Wet Spot" and featured exotic dancers.  

We asked if there was anything available at the Mackenzie.  The answer was, "No, except for room 129, and maybe we can move you to another room in the morning."  With no other recourse, we took it.  The room turned out to be the exotic dancers' room, complete with injunctions against entertaining hotel guests without taking another room for the purpose.  There were holes in the wall and stains, the origin of which we did not care to speculate on.  The mattress was well used.  Although we did not patronize The Wet Spot, I fantasized about performing a sonnet there.  It's called, Exotic Dancers' Room.   Here's the riff.

Exotic Dancer's Room

We stayed in the exotic dancers' room,

room 129 of the Mackenzie Inn

in Fort St. John, BC.  I wore a plume

of Cockatoo and little else.  The thin

still voice of reason, pure and over proof,

suggested sonnets.  Roughnecks from the oil

rigs loved m prosody.  "It's not a spoof

of Shakespeare," they proclaimed.  "It's like a foil

stuck in a stone.  A thing that Merlin made.

Just as we try the earth for minerals,

your sonnets plummet language, unafraid

of consequence.  They warm the Globe like wells

we drill.  But Oh, Sweet Zogo, it's the plume 

you wear that tantalizes.  Come back soon."