No Trespassing in Faulkner's Town

No Trespassing in Faulkner's Town

a poem got off the train

in Fiction Town

was immediately attacked

and beaten

verbs barely able to crawl away

limping through a landscape

of notorious prose

hidden themes hiding behind

rocks of unredeemable rhetoric

with poetry there is no law

no protection from thieves

or plunderers

if it's prosy, it's rosy

and taken in even if it's 

stream of consciousness

and unedited.

Even the most perfect poems

are shunned

Back on the train

the poems huddle

traveling back to sanctuary

an anthology

where nothing more than 20 lines

is accepted.

erin-cilberto

5/9/25

Reviews

[diggydigs]

I came across this poem a few days ago, and it hasn’t left me since. It’s lingered in my mind—not loudly, but unconsciously, like something only my heart could understand. I can’t explain how or why, but it did something to me—something only the deeper parts of me can name.

the outcome is this: I keep thinking of it. I’ll probably remember it longer than I realize.

to me, it speaks of this truth—
that every individual is their own poem.
no one can fully understand them but themselves.
they’re made of strange adjectives, unrecognizable nouns, and verbs that don’t always align.
and still, they are beautiful.

Even if the world chooses to exile them, they remain whole.
because no one else has to understand the structure,
only they need to admire the beauty of their design.

ps. the last stanza absolutely hit

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for your very kind review, diggy.
j.

[Laz K.]

poor poem entered a bad neighborhood and got beaten up. we could give this a marxist reading, or a feminist, or a neo-colonialist angle. so many reasons to dislike something, to see it as different, alien, unwanted, or even dangerous. maybe the best thing for these "poor huddled masses" would be to enjoy their own company and leave the bullies enjoy their high horse. the bigger they are, the harder they fall. that's what they say. but, then again, maybe "they" are just trying to comfort themselves.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Your usual very insightful reply...thank you, Laz.
j.

[redd Brick Keshner]

Poetry does not belong where prose commands, so it flees-
limping across the tracks, sentenced to exile before it speaks.
Not silenced, but contained, stacked between numbered pages,
bounded in ink, never given room to unfold where paragraphs run unchecked.

Poetry wanders where it is unwelcome,
its steps soft where prose is heavy.
Words must fight for their space,
and in exile, they remain whole.

But exile does not mean death.
Poetry remains, not within
Fiction Town’s walls, but
in the musing that prose cannot hold.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I like your poem to answer the poem.
Thank you, Freds,
j.

[redd Brick Keshner]

Thank you for inspiring such a response, j.
Freds.

[GLENDA & ETERNITY]

Thanks for your review and I'm here to do one for you.
Y'know? I did a work and published it in the Library of Congress to protect it ...that's when I discovered there are no real copyright laws on published works. Even the art that I did to accompany it.
I guess it's kind of like the internet. How do you protect from possibly millions even billions?
Good writing, J.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you Eternity...I figure if someone steals any of my work, they have to rest their heads on their pillow knowing what they publish did not really belong to them...
j.

[Renata]

I am aware of William Faulkner but always seemed to view him as more of a story teller than a poet, even though he did write poetry that wasn’t regarded as being as successful as his story writings. I think the critics kind of looked down on his poetry and revered his stories more.
Your poem is clever in its metaphor as regards Faulkner’s own work. That his poems would huddle in fear of being savaged and beaten by critics is quite inspired. Somehow, in a different artistic medium, the poem made me think of the film, The Warriors, with those poems fleeing for home with gangs of critics chasing after them.
I very much enjoyed this original idea.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you, Renata...I never read any poetry by Faulkner, but his town in the poem is just for prose...I took a Faulkner seminar and had to read several of his novels...key words there..."had to read"---
Thank you for your kind review,
j.

[Amanda Reynolds]

So great, so true and I love the personification, thank you for this!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for your very kind words, Amanda.
j.

[MCS]

Such an accurate description of what has become our world. Well done my friend.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for your kind comment, Mary.
j.

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

Amazing write I enjoyed reading it

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you, Julie.
j.

[Betty Hermelee]

Hi. J.
Such a great metaphor for the ugliness going on the streets and towns of America....picked off like apples on a tree and sent to St. elsewhere...no safe place here...especially if "they" don't like you (your poem)!
yet in poetry if you are criticized go back to your anthology, for there you are safe....
great!!!
Warmly, B

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for your insightful words, Betty.
j.

[Betty Hermelee]

most welcome J
Warmly, B🌷🌷🌷