Just to show Ms. Lindsey Piscitell (or is it Lindsey Jean now?) that we’re not totally heartless, we’ve decided to highlight her poetry. Please pass this on to all of your friends and post it on your facebook, because there’s actually a tremendous amount of entertainment value in this very serious piece of…..work.
I believe this poem is called “The Blue Light From the Gas Stove” and if it isn’t well, hell, we’ll just call it that. I’ve contacted noted Columbia English professor Dr. Seamus McDermott, PhD to interpret this poem for the neanderthals amongst us who have no appreciation for arts, culture, poetry, and manscaping.
Dr. McDermott: Clearly this piece references a failed relationship of a short-term and exclusively physical nature, likely brokered over the casual encounters section of craigslist. It’s middle afternoon, so obviously the narrator is an unemployed single female. Either she’s unemployed or she was able to cut out of work because her father, who is the head of the company, let her off early. She’s in the bedroom of a much older person who has lived in the City for quite some time, and the reason you know this is from the line: “the quiet pace of the clock-tick”. Single people in their 20s own digital clocks, NOT analog clocks that go tick. She adds “the mantle, stoic, approving”, therefore, she is in the presence of a man who is stoic and approves of her. Perhaps he’s a blind, older gentleman who isn’t too particular.
“married airshafts” — this is a crude copulation reference that needs no explanation. But, clearly, this gentleman is married. The immature writer, showing her disdain for his not having left the wife, explicitly states that he’s married, as if to shame him in a passive-aggressive manner. Figuratively, the narrator sees herself as the teapot/blue light: “grew much older”, “demonstrating determination”. The narrator is impressed with her growth, maturation, and evolution, though, for some reason, the rest of the world isn’t able to see her as she is able to, and this is a source of much consternation on her part. “The blue light danced…with its reflection…to the delight of the hall mirror” — she installed a stripper poll for her older, blind craigslist lover, and now she performs a lap dance for him on a webcam. Disturbing stuff really. The poem is one of triumph. She’s no longer going to live off her parents. No. She’s determined to find a proper sugar daddy. She will survive.
DARJEELING EXPRESS: Dr. McDermott, what do you make of the writer’s skill as a poet?
MCDERMOTT: Listen, I’m going to be honest with you. Poetry is crap. 99.99% of it is garbage, but what do you expect in a field with no barrier to entry and all kinds of hacks like this one calling herself a poet. I read thousands of these poems from my pretentious students, and if I’m lucky, out of those thousands, maybe one will actually make me feel something. And usually it’s something the student copied from an actual poet. Point is, this person is no different from the thousands of 20something females in NYC — they adore the smell of their B.S. first thing in the morning. I don’t even know how half of them afford to live in this craphole of a city.
DARJEELING EXPRESS: Thank you for your time, doc.
Again, this is the interpretation of one Dr. Seamus McDermott, Professor of English at Columbia University. We’re more than happy to hear your interpretations. We at the Darjeeling Express are asking you, our readers, to go through Ms. Piscitell’s poetry — New York Times & Palin Email style — and tell us what you think. Interpret it for us.