Tag Archives: poem about Facebook

#178: A Friend Has Commented On My Memory

Screen Shot 2015-08-26 at 2.26.17 PM

the result of reposting a “memory” of myself from exactly one year ago

A Friend Has Commented On My Memory

Facebook tells me when someone,
a friend presumably, has commented
on my memory. I like this.
I like, first, that my friends can see
my memory. It’s remarkable.
No where else is it possible to
for friends to see my memory.
If they are in a room with me,
perhaps, and I say something like,
I remember the time–
then, it seems like friends are able,
however corrupted or filtered
it may have become,
to see my memory, or at least,
a very small slice of it.
It’s possible that I’ve misunderstood.
Maybe friends are commenting
on my lack of memory. They’re
saying something like,
That Michael Jarmer, his memory
is not what it used to be.
That’s an unpleasant thought.
Or worse, they might be commenting
on their own memory of me,
in which case, they might be saying
something like, Gee, that Michael
Jarmer turns out to be nothing like
the way I remembered him.
Or worse still, the very worse still,
they speak of their memory of me
because they think I am no longer alive.
You know, in memoriam.
This last possibility is the most troubling.
But I comfort myself: how likely is it
that Facebook would be telling me
what my friends thought of me
after I was gone. Right? Not likely.
How likely would it be that I’d be
checking my Facebook in the afterlife?
Not likely. So I arrive back where
I started, saying that I am appreciative
of the fact that my friends are able to see
and then comment upon and sometimes
even go so far as to like my memory.
I remember as I am remembered
and it’s a loop that goes around
and around.


Filed under Poetry

#86: Another Stupid Human Facebook Trick


So, how many times
have you replied to a Facebook post
simply begging for your special brand
of snark and sarcasm and humor
and then changed your mind at
the last minute and deleted the whole
thing before you could post your reply?
You think, no, they won’t get it,
or, yes, they will get it and it will be bad,
or, no, that’s a nasty response,
or, no, this actually is not worth my time.
In this last case, you’re mad
because you’ve already spent the time
and then doubly mad because the time
you’ve spent is immediately sent
down the memory hole and lost forever.
At least, today, in the case of the post in question,
“I can be such an asshole,”
to which you responded and then deleted,
“I wasn’t going to say anything, but since
you’ve mentioned it: yes,”
at least, today, you got yourself a poem.


Filed under Poetry

#66: The American English Teacher Doesn’t Want His Student To See Him Using Facebook

No Facebook

So, the student stops by the house
of his English teacher
to pick up a younger member of his family who’s
taking music lessons from the English teacher’s wife,
and he comes into the study to say hello
and the English teacher minimizes his Facebook page
so that the student doesn’t know
that this is one of the ways his English teacher
spends his time at home.
Afterward, the English teacher writes a poem
about it because it strikes him, somehow,
as a very strange thing that he’s done, this minimizing
of Facebook, or because it makes him feel odd,
like he’s almost been caught doing something bad, or, at least,
caught doing something he’s self-conscious about,
something he doesn’t want his students, or this
particular student, to think he does all the time.
The English teacher can’t quite settle the dilemma,
doesn’t quite know how or what to think about the issue,
but eventually comes to feel all right about the whole thing,
liberated as he now feels from the earlier worry of the day
that he would never find another idea for a new poem.

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Filed under Culture, Poetry, Teaching

#52: Stupid Human Facebook Tricks


(with apologies to all my friends guilty of the following)

I think one has to earn the right
to post pictures of one’s food.
First, it must be good food,
carefully prepared, photogenic food,
artfully arranged, economically described.
Otherwise, I don’t want to see anybody’s food.

And I refuse to respond to posts that test
whether friends are actually reading,
asking them to repost the post,
asking others to do the same.  What
possible difference could it make
whether people are “scrolling” or reading
every little thing, especially when it’s
a little thing the person who is posting didn’t even write?
Man, life is too short not to scroll,
and if one finds this offensive,
one should get off social media right this minute and
never return, or, if one believes
people are scrolling past his or her posts
in particular, one either has a personal
problem or is just not very interesting
to begin with.  Copy and post the last stanza.

Or, similarly, I’m bugged by the form letter,
anonymously penned, that dresses
itself up in earnestness and sincerity
and talks about how important are the really
meaningful relationships in life and of course
the only way to prove yourself worthy
of such a relationship
is to copy and paste the post after you’ve
replied with one word (one word) about
how you met this lovely individual.
Or this: Describe how you met me but lie about it.
What possible purpose does this serve?

And I know people love their animals;
I, too, love mine, but I’m not posting pictures
of my dog in a half a dozen different poses,
nor will I find pictures of other cute dogs
on the interwebs and post these cute dogs
doing cute things like tricks and shit,
wearing hats.

And for totally different reasons
for which I am only partly ashamed, I hate it
when women post pictures of their feet.

In conclusion, like Lyle Lovett says,
I love everybody, and I would never
infringe on your right to post whatever
silly stuff you like, as long as you do me
the reciprocal favor of forgiving me
when I scroll past posts of your food,
your insecurities, your pets, your feet.

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Filed under Culture, Poetry