In the unedited “public responses” of last month’s Bamfette, diminutive septuagenarian Millie Nash Hutcheson (I’m guessing her age, but when I briefly met her at the Alberta Poetry Festival about five years ago she was bubbling excitedly about her impending retirement, and rather quaintly assuming anybody gave a shit) exposed her complete ignorance of any poetic developments later than her 10th birthday via a criticism of my performance at the annual Jackson Frière memorial slam last April. It will be instructive to quote her salient words in full here, interspersed with my replies.
- I was looking forward to seeing our enthusiastic, amateur, native poet Silver Debuse take the stage a little before midnight,
- Amateur, Millie? As opposed to you who’ve never been paid a penny for your work, I understand. (And it was nowhere near midnight. You must have been drunk.)
- for while I've never dug out his self-published books myself, I have heard good things about his creativity and his performance.
- What about the six volumes of my poetry published by traditional houses, Millie? Ever think of reading something yourself rather than relying on reports from moronic critics?
- Unfortunately the work he chose to read for us on this somber occasion
- I did not read, I performed. Why should a slam be somber? We remember Frière with joy, not with po-faced priggishness.
- was a sonnet about sex with animals, not terribly well put together,
- It was not a sonnet. Have you never read poetry?
- and I'm afraid the poor man forgot his lines, because it barely rhymed at all,
- No, Millie, you're a moron.
- and the meter, what you could detect through his stammering, monotonous rendition, was by no stretch of the imagination iambic pentameter.
- No, Millie, you're a moron.
- It was rather embarrassing for everyone concerned.
I can stop there, I think.
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