BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

I don't have an uncreative bone in my body. Which is why I was asked to edit Ode to Grecian Formula, a book of poetry by local bards.

Much has been said regarding the relationship between creativity and madness. Unfortunately, being crazy is no assurance of poetic genius. But a bad poem can drive an editor insane.

Out of 176 entries, most by Vice-Principal Vernon Wagstaff of Axel High, the committee selected 25 poems. It was a daunting task, but bribes ranging from Disney vacations to home-brewed beer lightened our burden.

How does one condemn even the crummiest of poets? Should one place a higher value on patriotism or romance? On blank verse or rhyme? On peach cobbler or a ride in a limo?

Should one choose Juanita Stalling's patriotic "'Scalp me,' said he, 'for I'll not flea (sic)'" over Vernon Wagstaff's avant-garde "Vomit"--

Bell-bottomed go-go girls in the neon green

Haze of stinking rotten fish I have

to go to the men's room

Death

I am overcome with emotion reading these poems. Before I know it, I'm wallowing in self-pity, for I too have known heart-break and despair. I remember my first poem, written at the tender age of thirty-six.

I lay rotting in my coffin

Thinking back when I so often

Drove around in a blue Dodge Dart

A blue Dodge Dart is a work of art.

No one knew it at the time, but I had the poetry gene. The gene of sleepless nights and purple lipstick. The gene that happy-go-lucky Neanderthals--no longer human kin--lacked. My poem was so profound, people wouldn't even believe I wrote it myself, insisting it must have been penned by a rabid Edgar Allan Poe. After that, I always took the poet's side in any argument.

This made me more trusting than I ought to be, which is how T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" got printed in its entirety in Ode to Grecian Formula, attributed to Roy Elsworth, owner of Roy's Big and Tall.

I remember thinking, boy, this sure is a good poem--"Let us go then, you and I,/ When the evening is spread out against the sky/ Like a patient etherized upon a table ...." Roy didn't realize it's not okay to sign your name to someone else's work, having missed the day Mrs. Harper taught about the evils of plagiarism in 10th grade. His submission is the longest poem in Ode, taking up a third of the pages.

It was my daughter Destinee who brought the offense to my attention, having opened the newly printed volume out of sheer boredom as she ate her frosted flakes one morning. "I know it's by a real poet. I remember it from class because the verse that says 'Shall I part my hair behind?' reminded me of the beauty shop."

A trip to the high school library confirmed my worst fears. My friend Modine told me not to feel bad. "It's not your fault," she said, "And no one will notice but you."

Since that fateful day, however, any pride I might have felt about standing at the helm of such an noble undertaking hath been rent asunder, my peace shattered, my countenance ragged as two claws.

I have plunged to the nether regions wherein the poet dwells.

T.S. Eliot has been wronged. And, as I stand at the window in the silver moonlight, leaning forthward, my golden tresses cascading o'er the aluminum siding, it matters little that no one knows but Destinee, Modine and me.