Why has celebrity become so fascinating? And why are we so interested in the private lives of celebrities? These are questions I find interesting and I’ve written a few poems on these kind of themes.
Yesterday, I read a poem by Tony Hoagland, from his collection What Narcissism Means to Me called Commercial for a Summer Night (the linebreaks are slightly different in the book version).
It’s a terrific poem with a great ending. I like the lines:
We were drinking beer with the sound off,
watching the figures on the screen--
the bony blonds, the lean- jawed guys
who decorate the perfume and the cars--
the pretty ones
the merchandise is wearing this year.
So the perfume wears the model. But the final line of the poem is, I think, ironic. The TV watchers are part of a "perfect commercial".
