I Know What I Like When I See It

The usual format of the writers' group I am in is thus: author reads, critics mull and re-read and mark up, critics discuss, and finally author is allowed to speak and answer questions.

Tonight, over plates of chicken salad wraps at the aut Bar, I read the poem posted below at 18 May. I could barely hear myself over the stereo system blaring Dido into the courtyard. When I finished, the critics sat and figeted with their pens. When the discussion rolled around, they unanimously liked it. Loved it even. Every-single-line-is-beautiful, this-is-so-sensual-and-intriguing loved it.

But they didn't know what it meant.

H. put forth several interpretations. As the group talked it over, I started to wonder if even I knew what it meant.

"It must be a good poem," S. said. "I don't understand it."
"I've decided to just leave it a mystery," said L.
"You should submit this somewhere," H. said. "Like The New Yorker."

I laughed.

M., the real poet of the group, merely winked at me and pointed out some too-ordinary words.