20190607.0430

I have not been as diligent in posting on 7 June as on some other days; I've only posted in this webspace on the day four times previously: 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2018. Three of the four are poems; the fourth is another pompously whining piece, and one of the poems is, as might be expected, an entry in an ongoing series of them. Neither needs any significant attention at this point. The 2015 post is another poem that reads more like prose than verse. (I received such a comment about another work of mine, though I have to wonder if the reader did not understand alliteration as a line-unifying device. That does not mean the critique is never valid, though.) It does not provoke even my interest at this point, so revisiting it further seems unhelpful.
The 2014 post, however, still works for me. Part is the stercoraceous language; the poem uses the word "shit" thrice in its thirty-nine irregular lines, twice specifically naming it as "dog shit." I am juvenile enough that I still pay attention to that kind of thing, even if "shit" is attested in English far earlier than is "beautiful" and should be old hat therefore. But the obscenity of the word still reads as being juxtaposed with the presumed formality of verse (formal because marked out as special due to the perceived distance between poetic form and "normal" life, just as "formal" clothing is marked as such in part because it is not "normal" daily wear). Being thus juxtaposed, it attracts attention and consideration.
It is not the only thing in the poem that does so, to be sure. The short second stanza--two unrhymed, arrhythmic lines--subverts the expectations fostered by the first stanza's raised chins. Typically, "chin up" refers either to pride or to a determination to persevere; the second stanza proposes that a raised chin is an invitation to attack. It makes possible that what is normally perceived of as a bad thing is, in fact, a good one, an inversion that the following lines pursue as they point out that the good and useful work of cleaning is work that demands looking down.
The poem continues, though, to note that those who do such work--vital and even pleasant to have done, though often unpleasant to do because of people's unconcern--is complicated and made harder by the active abuse of others. It does often seem that those in positions to care for or serve others are abused in those positions, the uneven power dynamics used to permit exercises in cruelty and disdain that are normally otherwise avoided (but if they are, it is because of fear of consequences rather than due to the sense that people deserve respect because they are people; such are those who need oversight to act well and who assume the same is true of others). The poem speaks to that openly.
There are other readings, of course; the dog shit might not be just dog shit, but a metaphor for any number of other unpleasantnesses often left behind by people who do not care much for the impact of their actions on others' lives. There are enough such to be found, certainly, too many.