Poetics and Poetry Discussion
Sherrie Kolb Cassel
(12/19/2013 11:37:00 PM)
I find it interesting that writers judge other writers by the philosophies by which they live/d, rather than by the quality of their work. Taste is the largest factor of who likes what, IMO, and there are certainly those who have a greater understanding of the technical aspects of the art(s) than I do, but I think that even monsters and gradations of monsters can create beauty. As some of you know, I'm an avid fan of Bukowski...in spite of his misogyny (I believe Peter - the real one - and I disagree on this point) .
Ezra Pound, Robert Frost, et al...may have had detestable qualities, but they still added significantly to the literary canon.
Sherrie Kolb Cassel
(12/19/2013 11:25:00 PM)
Feeling Fu*ked Up
By Etheridge Knight 1931–1991
Lord she’s gone done left me done packed / up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs—
F*ck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fu*k the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
f*ck marx and mao f*ck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism f*ck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes f*ck joseph f*ck mary f*ck
god jesus and all the disciples f*ck fanon nixon
and malcolm f*ck the revolution f*ck freedom f*ck
the whole muthaf*cking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing
(12/19/2013 11:16:00 PM)
Here you go Tony, a great poet on here nailed this place in his poem below(see if you can guess who is who) :
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
The recurring theme of the 'plasti' poets.
Thousands sitting in ill-fitting poetry sites,
and vacuum-laden forums making
hydrogenated-fatty comments broadcast
through a dispassionate, torpid ether,
or stuffed into serpentine fiber-optic cables
emitting lard laden signals that slow down
and clog ever-bored photons grudgingly carrying
this vacuous data to burned out screens just
to display sent, read, unread, dead messages.
Nothing really works, but the virile springs
of keyboard letters, livelier than the words
they form so well, morphing into flat,
fat final locutions that reek of nothing, nothing, nothing.
Empty shells of language used as currency
to buy and sell the wasted moments of mediocrities.
Self-congratulatory writing, good/bad writes,
don't give up; the silent scream of
the failed poets who, like the wingless birds
flutter aimlessly on the ground unable
to fathom what has happened.
Jump, jump is all they can do now,
the closest thing to ascension,
but that is OK, no one really cares.
With the droppings from soaring giants
on their heads, some feel empowered
to keep going, the stink of guano
is their accolade from these gods,
high above. How could they see,
how can they know, in this mass of chaos,
confusion and conformity. Who gives a damn,
a letter here, a word there; one massive
self-obsessed mind talking to itself, incessantly.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
(12/19/2013 11:02:00 PM)
ezra pound was a crazy fascist, frost was a s.o.b., this forum falls right into place, , weirdo microcosm
(12/19/2013 10:20:00 PM)
| Read 2 replies
I’m not taking the goat.....but
As a reply: THE FAUN, by Ezra PoundReplies for this message:
(12/19/2013 11:03:00 PM)
lol love it
(12/19/2013 10:22:00 PM)
THE FAUN Ha! Sir, I have seen you sniffing and snoozling About among my many flowers. Horticulture, you capriped? ‘Come, Auster, come Apeliota, And see the faun in our garden. But if you mo ... more
- Tony Miller (12/19/2013 11:03:00 PM) Post reply
(12/19/2013 9:44:00 PM)
| Read 2 replies
Cliche-Free Poetry(hard to find, easy to forget)
When Mama Gets Tongue-Tied(Our Very Own Broken?Garden Hoe)
By Sherrie Gonzales- Kolb
Mama dressed me up and kept me clean...
and made me breakfast every day,
every morning of my life
before I would go out and brave the day
without her hand in mine.
She braided my long black hair and
tied my bows, and held my world together
with pretty strings, glue she made
from flour, and the blood that flowed
She tried to shield me from the ugliness
that was both outside and inside our home
but - I knew. Kids always know.
I loved the butterflies she shared with me
and how she always said they were
our guardian angels watching out for us.
And Mama had miracles inside of her,
like when it snowed in my hometown, and
how the news reporter said that only happened
once every one hundred years, and how Mama said
that we were special because God gave us that gift –
to experience together. And she made us
snow cones out of the snow, mixed with vanilla, and all her love.
She shared Lady Bugs and sunrises, and the
V-formation of geese in the giant sky of our tiny town,
and her magnificent presence.
I imagine it was hard for her to focus on beauty
at Daddy’s side with her unexplained bruises,
that children need not concern themselves with.
Mama, my Mama, slight but sturdy, just
plugged along pointing out all of the wonders
of God’s creation helping us to forget the things that hurt us –
absorbing them into herself and teaching us about forgiveness –
with Jesus as her Rock.
College would distance me from the
small town I grew up in and, from Mama.
Later, she would tell me that she was at a loss for words
sometimes because I had learned all this fancy stuff and
she just didn’t know how to talk to me anymore.
She gets a little tongue-tied she says. I don’t understand.
Mama, the one person who can look at my face
and see my heart – tongue tied?
Her Lemon Zinger tea with a spoonful of honey
in an old cup she still has that we got with S&H
Green stamps way back - when it was what I needed
when the world got me down,
and the way her soft, little hands, that held my world together,
still touch my own, and help me remember who I am.
She asks me, and I can’t lie, “Honey, do you still pray?”(Love this line!)
I do, Mama, but sometimes I forget. (No cliches here, nice clean writing)
And so we pray, together, and even with my fancy words,
it’s Mama who touches my heart with hers and
with her unshakable faith.
She gives me Light in a world that seems a little darker every day,
and it’s her loving voice I hear when I am being impatient
with the woman I am not- -
Funny, how the years can change a person's heart.
Fear in our darkness, turbulence in teenage angst,
anger before understanding, and the slowly
answered prayers of a Mama
who never gave up on her children. on and on and on and on
By Lamont Palmer
Your darkness, Lucretia, spread like wasted weeds
Through fantasies you thought could do no harm.
Near you, against you, in you; remembrance intrigued
You, and left you wet and nude,
In the caves of bad choices, cold, where unhealthy water (BEST LINE RIGHT HERE)
Drips; dank and unable to think of a future.
There is no good way out of sweaty crimes,
No way for the world to know
That the survivalist speaks to God on his own
Carefully constructed terms; humanistic
Bargaining, and avoidance of threats to progeny
Daggers then are aftereffects; sharpened on lies,
Tools for the ones intent on not seeing the sun as
A mood-star; not deadening wishes, but making them rise;
Snake charmers of greater hope.
Für mein Sherrie, mein Dora
I could not have written this Surrealistic poem to anyone but you, but you still may not like it much. Dora Maar may not have wanted to have her portrait done as a Cubist, Guernica-infused Weeping Woman, but she loved the guy, you know?
There is a chocolate fondue fountain into
which lovers could dip marshmallows, black-
berries, or lovers, understanding that
love, perfect undipped love
can be metaphysical, should be;
I will have it surreal, and love you
as I am now, as I wish to perceive you,
mindful, body-full, and full.
It’s potent and paradoxical, like
dreams of wizards or flying fish or
looking at a sunrise in our windshield and not
talking about fire.
Only with you can I see these things
with such clarity that they blind us
and fill us with understanding.
I will blaze unchocolated through your world, through
you into mine and together,
remembering a time unreal and true,
long ago and never, when
we would see fish in the clouds,
I would become your wizard forever
and we’d walk past the unvisited section
of the ancient bookstore, past
an unopened copy of
Liebe ist ein Hund von der Hölle
and remark with pure pleasure
that had he lived, Freud
could have read Bukowski.
By Ben CasselReplies for this message:
(12/20/2013 12:09:00 AM)
To use Acker's term in the poem above, you are a pathetic woman. We wish you all the best, regardless. From what we know of your life you have a had a rough ride. Behind that tough exterior is a hurt ... more
Sherrie Kolb Cassel
(12/19/2013 11:15:00 PM)
Thank you, Seter. As Ben and I celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary today...it's lovely to have this kind of attention. Night.
- Seter Ptavropoulos (12/20/2013 12:09:00 AM) Post reply
(12/19/2013 9:14:00 PM)
| Read 1 reply
Jimmy Hawg died today(God bless his virtual soul) crossing a street in the Parisian district of Istanbul. Rumors abound that he may have been killed by a Jim Hogg but nothing has been confirmed as of yet. He told friends and family that he was being followed by a BROKEN or CRACKed garden HOE. As you can imagine no one believed the poor man. Strangely the ground around his body had been HOEd.
Jimmy Hawg was also known as James Hawg and Jim Hawg and sometimes times mistaken for James Hogg or Jim Hogg.
(12/19/2013 6:52:00 PM)
| Read 4 replies
In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps
one spark of the planet's early fires
trapped forever in its net of ice,
it's not love's later heat that poetry holds,
but the atom of the love that drew it forth
from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love
begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice
suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's - boastful
with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins;
but if it yields a steadier light, he knows
the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound
like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.
Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water
sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.
Don PatersonReplies for this message:
(12/19/2013 10:06:00 PM)
| Read 3 replies
Of course, when I like someone, I don't necessarily mean to imply that I think they're better than ME, I just mean I have an affinity for their style. Paterson's work reminds me of my own - some eleme ... more
(12/19/2013 9:13:00 PM)
First of all, what this 'Mr. Palmer' stuff?Secondly, you're right to a degree, but (and this may sound contradictive) the clichés are used in a fresher way, almost a Frostian way. There's a philosoph ... more
(12/19/2013 8:59:00 PM)
I just want to stand close in order to hear better. I don't want to miss a word. Two of the biggest, fattest, wingless birds down her are about to have an important exchange. My, there is a lot bir ... more
Sherrie Kolb Cassel
(12/19/2013 8:10:00 PM)
With all due respect, Mr. Palmer, I thin ... more
- Lamont Palmer (12/19/2013 10:06:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies
(12/19/2013 11:26:00 AM)
Hey i just post two of my poems on here. I would be really happy if someone would read them. One called Kill You by Katherine Patrick please tell me what you think thanks
(12/19/2013 10:30:00 AM)
Now THIS is what a poet of integrity does when she's asked to join the ghetto:
" No More Masks: An Anthology of Twentieth-Century American Women Poets" (edited by Florence Howe) Elizabeth Bishop famously declined being in this anthology as she didn't want to be in a " segregated" collection when it was published in 1973.