You like poetry. You don’t know it, but you like poetry. People tell me they don’t, then sing along with Beyoncé, word for word.
“Music isn’t poetry.”
Of course, spoken word is a thing, but singing? Nah, man.
Singing is poetry. Spoken word is poetry. And so is sitting in your study, relaxing in in a comfortable armchair while smoking a pipe and piously reading the erotic poetry of the Song of Solomon .
People don’t like poetry because it’s sitting in a classroom, falling asleep while reading Tennyson’s Lady Clara Vere de Vere . They’d rather hang out with their friends. Poetry is punishment.
I get it. I do.
When I bought a copy of the award-winning Aloud: Voices from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe , it was awful. I was used to Victorian poetry and this jumbled mess of emotional vomit on a page was ... not resonating.
I had missed the word “Aloud” in the title, not realizing that these pieces were meant to be spoken When you read, “And my brother/joined the army/to get away/from the government”? What the hell does that even mean? When you realize that Nicole Breedlove is writing about growing up on welfare, it changes it. I would love to hear that particular poem spoken.
So it’s with dismay that I realize James Davidson’s Thirty Bob a Week , one of the greatest poems of all time, doesn’t work for people. They read it and “meh” out of there. I had the same reaction, but the poem stuck in mind. It was calling to me. I answered. I reread it, multiple times, using annotated versions explaining lines that otherwise made no sense.
This is my favorite poem. Familiarity breeds content, or something like that.
But it’s not an accessible poem. When he writes that his wife “stitches towels for a hunks,” what the hell does that even mean? You can kind of understand it, but it’s rough going for many and they’ll turn away.
So here’s my version. Victorian poetry featured the moneyed class speaking for the working class. Davidson lets the working class speak for themselves. “Thirty Bob a Week” was about a working class man struggling to make ends meet, but with a fierce pride. He owned who he was. Imagine trying to feed a partner and two children on minimum wage. It’s brutal. That’s Davidson’s poem. “Thirty Grand a Year” is my tribute to him. Read it as you will.
Thirty Grand a Year I can’t just punch a clock or twist a bolt, And make the whole damn planet hustle just for me— That trick’s for kids born clutching a gold remote; I bet that's how you grew up so easily? On gov'ment cheese and ramen I live, man, A line worker, low wage, stuck fast, you see. But don't give me no crap 'bout destiny; No magic stars say who wins or who loses; Some dudes are born the boot, it seems to me, While most like me only get life's abuses. I eat the dirt, no crybaby, that's key, But cross my heart, feel lost, with no excuses. For like a damn drone I crawl through the dark, On the clapped-out subway, packed just like sardines, Home to 'Patriot Estates', my crapbox, a bad mark, To punch the clock through soul-destroying scenes; While rent takes half before I can embark To stretch fifteen an hour by other means. And yes, it's cold and damp, the roof likely leaks, My old lady works two gigs for wealthy types; 'Patriot Estates' half-empty now for weeks, She scrubs their floors and swallows down their gripes. Three rooms like cells where misery bespeaks, While sleeping kids escape these sorry stripes. But you won't hear her bitch or make a moan, She's built tough, concrete and roses, somewhat odd; And I hafta bite my tongue when I'm alone, Or lose it, man, bone-tired and roughshod. So maybe we're in Hell for all that I can tell, And lost and damned and served up hot to God. I ain't try'na get cancelled, Mr. News guy slick, Just talkin' truth you probably cannot face: With all your Fox News facts and rhetoric quick, You don't know hardship living in this place. Low wage is real, the hardest kind of trick, Your 'bootstrap' talk's a slap in the face. Not your offshore account, my buddy dear, But kids, a partner you keep holding on, With barely scratch to make ends meet, it's clear, Just hoping you can make it to the dawn. When drink don't claim you, held by rage and fear, You think, see messed-up gears till hope is gone. I step inside my head and there I meet This crazy devil, whisperin' real low, Who just wants murder screamed out in the street, To smash it all and put on quite a show; If the whole world was cake for him to eat, He'd snatch it, demand seconds, gulp it, so. And I meet this other guy, kinda slow, The kinda dude life kicks right in the teeth; Makes minimum wage, keeps his poor family now, Fell in love young, while struggling hard beneath; Still earning' that same wage, knows he is stuck, The system's rigged, the rot runs truly deep. And the rage-monster and the sad sack fool That I bump into somewhere in my head, When zoned right out, just acting like a tool, Staring at walls, wish I was home instead, My good and evil, breaking every rule, Ride me ragged, by twin devils led. Okay, that sounds out there, needs sorting, yes, But I have got this burning in my mind — A kick-head way these problems coalesce, That leaves your expert spreadsheets far behind: I'll say it straight: 'There are no easy breaks, Nor hitting any magic lotto prize.' And this is how I figure it, deep down: No blame on parents, presidents, there's none; Not Adam, 'society', this rotten town, Not 'the economy', no battle won: Just a tiny spark woke ere day was on — A billion years before the sun begun. I woke because I figured time was now; Beyond my own damn choice, none commanded me; And everywhere I landed, free to roam, Because I chose this by my own decree; Whatever body I wore, when life began, I walked my road, unbounded, wild, and free. I was the spark that picked my mom and dad; I crashed two lives together and burst out; My weaknesses and strengths, both good and bad, Are mine, all mine, forever, I will shout: It's just the very same, though different words are hung, As 'Thy will be done' beneath His judgment high. They drone it daily on the broadcast flat, As easy as just grabbing a cold beer, it's true; But hardest thing to grasp, right where you're at, And the toughest job a person has to do, Is face this grind, accept your life and wage, And feel, 'Yes, this is right,' and see it through. It's like bein' naked facing hungry wolves; It's like tryin' to cash an always-bouncing check; It's like a tightrope walk that life involves O'er lava pits, with chains around your neck; But folks still do it, millions still face it; And fall face-first, fighting in the dreck.