This is one of my favorite Hip songs, and it's a bit ambiguous. On the surface, yes, Gord seems to be decrying the uselessness and pomposity of poets and poetry, but on the other hand, the language he uses, "the pink amid the withered corn stalks", "himalayas of the mind" even "the epitome of vague", is itself very poetic. What are we to make of this.
I think he's singing the chorus, and even the whole song, sarcastically. Gord has even called himself a poet on occasion, and I think what he's driving at here is that despite general concensus of society is that poetry is useless, there is still an undeniable value there.
The second chorus here is wrong, and it's unfortunate, because I think that's where we get the real hint about his true feelings for poets and poetry. It goes like this --
Don't tell me what the poets are doing
Those Himalayas of the mind
Don't tell me what the poets are doing
In the long grasses over time...
This is where the contradictions meet head on, the rote, mundane denial of the poet, meets the poets florid, language.
Language wins! As we see in the last verse, which trails off in a stream of lush imagry...
This is one of my favorite Hip songs, and it's a bit ambiguous. On the surface, yes, Gord seems to be decrying the uselessness and pomposity of poets and poetry, but on the other hand, the language he uses, "the pink amid the withered corn stalks", "himalayas of the mind" even "the epitome of vague", is itself very poetic. What are we to make of this.
I think he's singing the chorus, and even the whole song, sarcastically. Gord has even called himself a poet on occasion, and I think what he's driving at here is that despite general concensus of society is that poetry is useless, there is still an undeniable value there.
The second chorus here is wrong, and it's unfortunate, because I think that's where we get the real hint about his true feelings for poets and poetry. It goes like this --
Don't tell me what the poets are doing Those Himalayas of the mind Don't tell me what the poets are doing In the long grasses over time...
This is where the contradictions meet head on, the rote, mundane denial of the poet, meets the poets florid, language.
Language wins! As we see in the last verse, which trails off in a stream of lush imagry...