Nov
2
A Poegle from Poet Henry Hart
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Below is a poem composed in part through the use of poegling techniques by the poet Henry Hart. Henry is the author of three books of poetry, The Ghost Ship, The Rooster Mask, and the forthcoming Rural Apocalpyse. He is also the author of a critically acclaimed study of James Dickey, The World as a Lie. He also has a new novel forthcoming, Changshin Mission. In using search results to enhance a more traditional poem, Henry may have just invented the first ever poegle hybrid. Thanks to Henry!
The Island of Misfit Toys
I was drinking eggnogs alone on Christmas eve.
In the TV’s static, I saw St. Nick kick an elf
named Hermey off the assembly line at his workshop.
“The little shit keeps yakking about wanting to be
a dentist,” St. Nick growled. I scratched the antler
stubs in my hair, called to Hermey moping in the snow:
“You think you got it bad? Fireball gave me a permanent
bloody nose when he head-butted me at the Reindeer games.
Now everybody uses my nose as a punch line.”
We decided we’d fit in better on the Island of Misfit Toys
so Hermey jumped on my back, steered the handlebars
on my head through the northern lights to an igloo
made of blocks of Yukon gold that belonged to Cornelius,
the Alaskan wildcatter. I was so cold when we landed,
I could only say “hello” in Morse code with my teeth.
Cornelius shook my hoof: “Welcome to Palin Land.
I’m the First Dude here. That winged lion over there
pretending to guard the air space is just a big pussy cat
in drag who pinched his wings from a griffin.”
A voice like Palin’s crackled through loudspeakers:
“I resemble that remark. If you want to stay in my kingdom,
it’ll cost Cornelius his sled dogs. I’ve got to feed
my Abominable Snowman who’s running out of Polar Bears.
Now don’t Gore me with a lecture on global warming.
Polar bears are just big fuzzy eatables.” “Take ‘em all,”
Cornelius barked. “Those mutts are holding on by shoe string
anyway. And I’ve got plenty of snowmobiles.”
Inside his igloo, Cornelius whispered: “I’ve had it
with that Palin clone who thinks he’s King of the Cats.
Tonight we’ll knock off the Snowman and get the dogs back.
Hermey, old pal, you find some dental pliers in the warehouse
of misfit toys. Rudolph, you climb the cliff and roll
a snowball on the Snowman’s head when I draw him out
with some pig squeals. When he’s lying there like a glacier,
Hermey—you defang him with pliers and pick the locks
on the dog cages. Then we’ll all make a run for it.”
“We’d hoped to hide with you in the great Alaskan wilderness,”
Hermey whimpered. Cornelius sighed: “Look—ever since Palin
started shopping at Niemen Marcus and winking at Sean Hannity
things have gone south. My oil wells dried up. Palin’s plan
to smelt black gold from icebergs didn’t pan out.
It’s time to hang up the oil drills and follow the snow geese.”
Flicking on a flashlight in the warehouse, Hermey grumbled
we’d be homeless forever. We wandered past bins of Palin pins
scuttling like roaches smeared with lipstick, robotic cowboys
firing red VICTORY flags from six-shooters, models of Straight-
Talk Express trains jogging on square wheels, nails
from amputated fingers playing patriotic songs on Victrolas,
Mickey Mouse clocks with hands circling in different directions.
Finally we found dental pliers in a box labeled “TOP SECRET—
ONLY TO BE USED ON BARACK OBAMA’S WHITE TEETH.”
I opened the box with an antler. Hermey grabbed a pair
and we fled. Cornelius waited outside with snowshoes,
which we used to climb to the Snowman’s cave.
Cornelius did his suckling pig squeal better than the mountain
man in Deliverance. Perched on a Styrofoam cliff, I rolled
an ice boulder filled with rocks on the abominable head
of the Snowman when he quaked from his cave.
Hermey pulled out his teeth faster than any dentist,
then unlocked the caged dogs like a professional burglar.
Everyone piled onto the Abominable Snowman’s sleigh.
I flew it to the coast where we hopped on an iceberg.
Luckily, the tide turned in our favor before the Snowman woke,
spit blood, saw red auroras, hurled chunks of a calving glacier.
We surfed the tsunamis until our prospects warmed,
became a new climate, and the sky filled with the TV’s static.
By Henry Hart