After the death of poet laureate John Masefield British bookies made W.H. Auden the favorite to replace him.
BBC News
It’s been a long time coming but finally, after three hundred years of waiting, poetry betting has come to Massachusetts.
Friday night is when the action starts for me, although those who want to get a jump on the weekend usually head to the Erato (muse of love and lyric poetry) Boston Harbor Casino on Thursday night. I am greeted by Roberto, the senior valet, who takes my fob as I step out of my 2018 Equinox.
“You’ll remember to return the driver-side seat to its current setting when I’m ready to leave–correct?” I caution him.
“Signor Chapman–with the magic of Chevrolet’s patented ‘Memory Seat’ feature, the seats have a mind of their own.”
“That is what I am afraid of, Roberto,” I say, and I begin to recount the harrowing tale of how the seats nearly pinned me to my steering wheel when they took off on a frolic and detour of their own while I was driving one day, but he stops me as soon as I start.
“Please, Signor Chapman, I must ask you to enter the casino–there are many people besides you whose cars I must valet.”
I didn’t know “valet” could be used as a verb, but I look at the line of cars extending all the way out to the traffic circle leading onto Alford Street and realize . . . I’m not the only plunger who wants to plunk down a few bucks on poetry prop bets.
“Si, you are correct Roberto.” I reach in my wallet and pull out a $1 bill, which he gratefully accepts as I say “Gracias.”
“Thank you, Signor Chapman, this will bring much joy to my wife and children. And thank you as well for saying ‘thank you’ in my native tongue.”
“Well, Spanish is the language of love.”
“I am Italian.”
“Whatever.”
I make my way into the casino–all gaudy lights and spectacle–and look up at the “tote board” to see what’s in play. There’s early action on the Pulitzer Prize, the award that, as critic Joseph Epstein once said, is given each year to someone who either doesn’t need it or doesn’t deserve it. Odds for the Yale Younger Poets Award have been posted, but I’m not going to risk my hard-earned money on some punk who’s going to crank out one chapbook before he/she/they is 25, then chuck it all to go to business school and become an investment banker.
The Nobel Prize is off the boards, and for good reason. Those who make book in the World of Verse lost their shirts–if I may be permitted a triple-vowel rhyme!–when “Bob Dylan,” né Robert Zimmerman won for a bunch of folk-rock songs that, regrettably, don’t hold up so well on the printed page without electric guitars backing them up.
As an impecunious poet myself, I don’t have that much disposable income. Oh sure, there are greeting cards, Burma-Shave signs, memorial tributes for funerals (“Dad was always something else–with his polyester and Sans-a-Belts.”). And two–or is it three?–adjunct teaching jobs at one of the Boston area’s many institutions of higher learning.
But as for making money as a poet actually writing poetry? As I have said before, if I had a nickel for every poem of mine that’s been published and for which I was paid, I’d have a quarter.
So I gravitate as always towards the low-roller table and place a couple of side bets: next full professor of poetry at Harvard–male or female or something else? I’m gonna say “something else,” the male/female dualism is so cliche. Next male poetry professor to be fired for having an affair/sexually harassing a female student? Back in the day we had Derek Walcott who was always good for a short-odds payout–he dipped his pen in his student body’s ink at both Harvard and Boston University. At a 2–1 payout, you could double your money without breaking a sweat.
I don’t like the poetry-in-residence parlay bets. You got lots of colleges around here so some guys think it’s easy to predict three and score a trifecta, but seriously some of these guys are so obscure their mothers haven’t heard of them.
It ain’t like at the race track, where if you hang around in the barns you can pick up some inside dope. In the English departments around here, the dopes are all on the inside. As G.B. Shaw said–those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.
I’m reaching for my wallet when I hear a familiar voice hail me from behind. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite Neo-formalist light doggerelista.” It’s my buddy Mad Dog, whose poems have been widely published in men’s room stalls.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I got tired of sports betting. Boston’s sports teams are in the doldrums, it ain’t like the good old days.”
“I remember them well,” I say wistfully. “Some of the most peaceful naps I ever took came during the Patriots’ six (6) Super Bowl wins.”
“You’re lying, the Super Bowls’ always played at night.”
“Okay–regular season games.”
“So . . . how does this poetry betting work?” Mad Dog asks.
“Well, there’s no such thing as a point spread, it’s all or nothing.”
“Is there an over/under?”
“Yes, over there,” I say, pointing to the “Big Board.” “Of the X number of poems that are written today, Y will be published.”
“Who’s playing?”
“Everybody . . . that’s the problem. The editor of a little lit mag is drinking from a fire hose–millions of poet wannabes, no room until the April 2028 issue for any new material.”
“Sounds tough,” Mad Dog says.
“It is. That’s why I keep my day job.”
“Okay. So what are you going to bet on?”
I take a look at the tote board with a gimlet eye–actually two gimlet eyes–trying to find the one sucker bet in the bunch.
“I think I found it.”
“What?” Mad Dog asks.
“There’s a prop bet on whether the next poet to commit suicide will be male or female.”
“Which way you leaning?”
“Are you kidding? I’m from the Metrowest area–Newton, Wellesley, Weston, the Bermuda Triangle of Suicidal Female Poets.”
“Like who?”
“Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath.”
“Okay, so it’s a sure thing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Mad Dog gives me a skeptical upturned eyebrow. “We’re talking poetry.”
“So?”
“You gotta look below the surface for the hidden, deeper meaning.”
Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “poetry is kind of important.”