Sorehead

I was arrested because of that internal memo,

and ended up in a cell, then I was told to sit

with the police and the local bigwigs.

In the hushed and fast darkening room they said

someone—someone—had reduced the safety margin

on the airport risk factor, and I got the blame.

The sky that day was a pale, clear blue, but

that was happening outside, and far away.

The cop on duty would not open the tomb

of the deported—sorry, departed—and as usual

he had a story. Every movie, he said, depends

on a script, and the narrative grows out of

market research: a set of standard deviations. Art?

What would they know? Open the tomb, and let me in.

Translator's Notes:

Q & A: John Tranter

This poem strikes me as a sort of “Kafka meets Homeland Security.” Could you say more about the mood of the poem?

I like that: the gloomy European depth of Kafka versus the shallow, bland-as-apple-pie Homeland Security. I think the poem reflects our present-day society, where politicians and civic authorities are routinely bribed and bought by the rich and crooked. The poem’s concerns also circle around an argument about the nature of art: if “the narrative grows out of/market research,” where’s the place for artistic inspiration? Must the artist always be vulnerable to being pushed aside by manipulative phonies? Movies used to be great once: or so we feel. But now, movies are shaped and reshaped until they satisfy a focus group or a test audience. Ugh! Is this a vision of art ground down on the whetstone of commerce, or of the lowest common denominator dictating artistic taste?

Who’s the “Sorehead”?

Believe it or not, nineteen-year-old Arthur Rimbaud. The title was inspired by the poem’s “original” French source: Rimbaud’s “Matinée d’ivresse” or “Morning of Drunkenness.” Well, he would have a sore head, wouldn’t he, depending on how much absinthe he had imbibed?

Source: Poetry (December 2010)