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just mercedes

(05-28-2014, 06:35 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]Writing poetry is living in the suburbs of New York and knowing that the important things in life are stainless steel appliances and granite countertops and well-trimmed lawns and one day looking around and seeing that everyone is the exact same and wanting to maybe be a little different so you decide to go on an adventure and you get on a plane and fly to Africa so that you can be different from all the people in your sub-division discussing the importance of picking out the correct blinds. And poetry is hating the dusty heat of Africa that makes your skin itch and the smell of the people and the animals all mixing together and sleeping in a tent when it is so hot you can’t breathe and the mosquito netting and agreeing to go on a night time safari even though you really just want to stay back at the hotel and drink gin.

And then it happens to you -  poetry is that wonder of seeing a wild horse appear on that safari and being amazed at its indifference as it flexes its moon-dappled flanks and then it’s gone but you suddenly have a need to share it with others but you don’t know much about horses or have the skill you need so you make a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you fly back to New York and you meet up with others who have kids-crayon-drawings of horses and they remind you of that moonlit safari in Africa and your own wonder so you tell them how great it is and some people try to tell you it’s not that good and they have these expertly drawn pictures of boring old plough horses and they may be good at drawing but their boring old horses aren’t your magical horse which belongs to only you. And hopefully you can continue to be happy drawing crayon pictures of horses and sharing them with others in your knowledge that they are good and they are unique and they are your own but . . .

Some times you will wake up and see the kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and realize that it isn’t actually your horse at all so you get on a plane and go back to Africa and you search the plains until you find that magical horse and you build a farm and chain that horse to a plough and study that horse every day.  You feed the horse and the horse feeds you by pulling that plough and you learn about horses and how they really are and the horse’s silky mane turns the dun color of dust and its flanks grow stouter and it is beautiful in its honesty.  So you fly back to New York and you draw perfect meticulous drawings of plough horses that show each line of wear on the tack and the dirt of the plough is so expertly rendered you can smell the earth and you share it with others and you all share your great pictures of plough horses and occasionally someone shows a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you roll your eyes because you remember when that was you and hopefully you can stay this way forever happy in your superiority but . . .

Some day you may look at your drawings of plough horses and remember that one magical night on moonlit safari in Africa when you saw that one wild horse so you fly back to Africa, back toyour old horse and your old farm and you stay so long that the horse can’t pull the plough anymore so you hitch yourself to the plough and you feed your old friend and keep his hay sweet and give him oats when his old toothless gums bleed and one day your old friend lays down for his last time and you stay there with him until he expires and maybe, in that last moment, you can see him as the majestic creature he once was – that beautiful horse that appeared in the moonlight so you go back to New York and now you are Keats and you spend the rest of your life writing about everything that’s beautiful with your perfect precision and your beautiful words and people read your writing and they want to display you in their galleries in Soho or have you speak at their functions and you are happy forever.

Well, I hope that is you.  But maybe, and I certainly hope not, but maybe in those last moments with the horse, as you are with him and he is dying, maybe as your mind recaptures the beauty of that horse in the moonlight the scene zooms out and you see something else – a man seeing that horse for the first time and that is when you come to the terrible realization that your poem was never a horse at all but the horrible story of a man that saw something wonderful and spent his life trying to communicate with others.  Your poem is the terrible loneliness of mankind and you stay in Africa all alone trying to find yourself or some way to break free from yourself and smash your body against time like the waves against the shore in the hopeless desperation that is man – lost and alone. Well, I hope that isn’t you, but if it is, I sure would like to read your poem.



Amazing! I'm speechless.
(04-24-2016, 06:58 AM)just mercedes Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 06:35 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]Writing poetry is living in the suburbs of New York and knowing that the important things in life are stainless steel appliances and granite countertops and well-trimmed lawns and one day looking around and seeing that everyone is the exact same and wanting to maybe be a little different so you decide to go on an adventure and you get on a plane and fly to Africa so that you can be different from all the people in your sub-division discussing the importance of picking out the correct blinds. And poetry is hating the dusty heat of Africa that makes your skin itch and the smell of the people and the animals all mixing together and sleeping in a tent when it is so hot you can’t breathe and the mosquito netting and agreeing to go on a night time safari even though you really just want to stay back at the hotel and drink gin.

And then it happens to you -  poetry is that wonder of seeing a wild horse appear on that safari and being amazed at its indifference as it flexes its moon-dappled flanks and then it’s gone but you suddenly have a need to share it with others but you don’t know much about horses or have the skill you need so you make a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you fly back to New York and you meet up with others who have kids-crayon-drawings of horses and they remind you of that moonlit safari in Africa and your own wonder so you tell them how great it is and some people try to tell you it’s not that good and they have these expertly drawn pictures of boring old plough horses and they may be good at drawing but their boring old horses aren’t your magical horse which belongs to only you. And hopefully you can continue to be happy drawing crayon pictures of horses and sharing them with others in your knowledge that they are good and they are unique and they are your own but . . .

Some times you will wake up and see the kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and realize that it isn’t actually your horse at all so you get on a plane and go back to Africa and you search the plains until you find that magical horse and you build a farm and chain that horse to a plough and study that horse every day.  You feed the horse and the horse feeds you by pulling that plough and you learn about horses and how they really are and the horse’s silky mane turns the dun color of dust and its flanks grow stouter and it is beautiful in its honesty.  So you fly back to New York and you draw perfect meticulous drawings of plough horses that show each line of wear on the tack and the dirt of the plough is so expertly rendered you can smell the earth and you share it with others and you all share your great pictures of plough horses and occasionally someone shows a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you roll your eyes because you remember when that was you and hopefully you can stay this way forever happy in your superiority but . . .

Some day you may look at your drawings of plough horses and remember that one magical night on moonlit safari in Africa when you saw that one wild horse so you fly back to Africa, back toyour old horse and your old farm and you stay so long that the horse can’t pull the plough anymore so you hitch yourself to the plough and you feed your old friend and keep his hay sweet and give him oats when his old toothless gums bleed and one day your old friend lays down for his last time and you stay there with him until he expires and maybe, in that last moment, you can see him as the majestic creature he once was – that beautiful horse that appeared in the moonlight so you go back to New York and now you are Keats and you spend the rest of your life writing about everything that’s beautiful with your perfect precision and your beautiful words and people read your writing and they want to display you in their galleries in Soho or have you speak at their functions and you are happy forever.

Well, I hope that is you.  But maybe, and I certainly hope not, but maybe in those last moments with the horse, as you are with him and he is dying, maybe as your mind recaptures the beauty of that horse in the moonlight the scene zooms out and you see something else – a man seeing that horse for the first time and that is when you come to the terrible realization that your poem was never a horse at all but the horrible story of a man that saw something wonderful and spent his life trying to communicate with others.  Your poem is the terrible loneliness of mankind and you stay in Africa all alone trying to find yourself or some way to break free from yourself and smash your body against time like the waves against the shore in the hopeless desperation that is man – lost and alone. Well, I hope that isn’t you, but if it is, I sure would like to read your poem.



Amazing! I'm speechless.

thanks!!
*bump*

Just to show we do actually care about new poets  Hysterical
(05-28-2014, 06:35 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]Writing poetry is living in the suburbs of New York and knowing that the important things in life are stainless steel appliances and granite countertops and well-trimmed lawns and one day looking around and seeing that everyone is the exact same and wanting to maybe be a little different so you decide to go on an adventure and you get on a plane and fly to Africa so that you can be different from all the people in your sub-division discussing the importance of picking out the correct blinds. And poetry is hating the dusty heat of Africa that makes your skin itch and the smell of the people and the animals all mixing together and sleeping in a tent when it is so hot you can’t breathe and the mosquito netting and agreeing to go on a night time safari even though you really just want to stay back at the hotel and drink gin. 

And then it happens to you -  poetry is that wonder of seeing a wild horse appear on that safari and being amazed at its indifference as it flexes its moon-dappled flanks and then it’s gone but you suddenly have a need to share it with others but you don’t know much about horses or have the skill you need so you make a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you fly back to New York and you meet up with others who have kids-crayon-drawings of horses and they remind you of that moonlit safari in Africa and your own wonder so you tell them how great it is and some people try to tell you it’s not that good and they have these expertly drawn pictures of boring old plough horses and they may be good at drawing but their boring old horses aren’t your magical horse which belongs to only you. And hopefully you can continue to be happy drawing crayon pictures of horses and sharing them with others in your knowledge that they are good and they are unique and they are your own but . . .

Some times you will wake up and see the kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and realize that it isn’t actually your horse at all so you get on a plane and go back to Africa and you search the plains until you find that magical horse and you build a farm and chain that horse to a plough and study that horse every day.  You feed the horse and the horse feeds you by pulling that plough and you learn about horses and how they really are and the horse’s silky mane turns the dun color of dust and its flanks grow stouter and it is beautiful in its honesty.  So you fly back to New York and you draw perfect meticulous drawings of plough horses that show each line of wear on the tack and the dirt of the plough is so expertly rendered you can smell the earth and you share it with others and you all share your great pictures of plough horses and occasionally someone shows a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you roll your eyes because you remember when that was you and hopefully you can stay this way forever happy in your superiority but . . .

Some day you may look at your drawings of plough horses and remember that one magical night on moonlit safari in Africa when you saw that one wild horse so you fly back to Africa, back toyour old horse and your old farm and you stay so long that the horse can’t pull the plough anymore so you hitch yourself to the plough and you feed your old friend and keep his hay sweet and give him oats when his old toothless gums bleed and one day your old friend lays down for his last time and you stay there with him until he expires and maybe, in that last moment, you can see him as the majestic creature he once was – that beautiful horse that appeared in the moonlight so you go back to New York and now you are Keats and you spend the rest of your life writing about everything that’s beautiful with your perfect precision and your beautiful words and people read your writing and they want to display you in their galleries in Soho or have you speak at their functions and you are happy forever.

Imperialist.

(05-28-2014, 06:35 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]Well, I hope that is you.  But maybe, and I certainly hope not, but maybe in those last moments with the horse, as you are with him and he is dying, maybe as your mind recaptures the beauty of that horse in the moonlight the scene zooms out and you see something else – a man seeing that horse for the first time and that is when you come to the terrible realization that your poem was never a horse at all but the horrible story of a man that saw something wonderful and spent his life trying to communicate with others.  Your poem is the terrible loneliness of mankind and you stay in Africa all alone trying to find yourself or some way to break free from yourself and smash your body against time like the waves against the shore in the hopeless desperation that is man – lost and alone. Well, I hope that isn’t you, but if it is, I sure would like to read your poem.

I take it back. Neocolonialist?

Real lovely work, though.
It comes in waves, sometimes thinking about writing makes me ill, I can go months without it and wonder what's wrong with me.  Like manic highs and lows.  John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats is one of my favorite artists even though half the time I can't listen to him, because he seems to follow the philosophy that more is better.  Non-traditional music, poetry with strings attached.  A huge bulk of work prolly 300 songs or more but there are a few that really blew my mind.  And even though he's not super famous or kicking out hits, he's pushing and going all the time .  My favorite signature I've seen on this site, I don't know who claims it, is 'if you can't be the poet, be the poem'  I told people who were 'interviewing' me that I had to write a whole lot of garbage before I wrote a good song.  And then I think all my work is good to a degree, mediocrity at its finest.  Long before I wrote anything, a girl told me my life was a poem, my 'so long' story in the sewer is a whole bunch of stuff that actually happened to me, with no intention of writing ever.  I think my struggle has to do with vanity mainly, or pride, or whatever, I'm a hobbyist the only deadline is my own.  Deadlines help though
That's the key, I think -- accept your garbage and push through it Smile

We need to set ourselves goals but go easy if we find we were unrealistic. Poets (all artists really) tend to be highly self-critical and set crazy expectations that we can probably meet, but are devastated if something gets in our way. And let's face it, at the end of the day life expects a lot out of us and doesn't always give us time and the space in our heads that we need to develop a masterpiece.
But ultimately, poetry is an art where everyone's the performer and no one's there to buy the tickets. Like running - if you're a keen runner you only care about your own timing. And if you're not a keen runner you couldn't care less about the winner of the Berlin marathon anyway.
Except that running gets you fit and poetry gets you depressed.
I hope Trump and Putin ban poetry.
I hope they do as well, because I don't live there and I could be a foreign agitator.
Wait... I might already be that.
(04-24-2016, 06:58 AM)just mercedes Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 06:35 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]Writing poetry is living in the suburbs of New York and knowing that the important things in life are stainless steel appliances and granite countertops and well-trimmed lawns and one day looking around and seeing that everyone is the exact same and wanting to maybe be a little different so you decide to go on an adventure and you get on a plane and fly to Africa so that you can be different from all the people in your sub-division discussing the importance of picking out the correct blinds. And poetry is hating the dusty heat of Africa that makes your skin itch and the smell of the people and the animals all mixing together and sleeping in a tent when it is so hot you can’t breathe and the mosquito netting and agreeing to go on a night time safari even though you really just want to stay back at the hotel and drink gin.

And then it happens to you -  poetry is that wonder of seeing a wild horse appear on that safari and being amazed at its indifference as it flexes its moon-dappled flanks and then it’s gone but you suddenly have a need to share it with others but you don’t know much about horses or have the skill you need so you make a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you fly back to New York and you meet up with others who have kids-crayon-drawings of horses and they remind you of that moonlit safari in Africa and your own wonder so you tell them how great it is and some people try to tell you it’s not that good and they have these expertly drawn pictures of boring old plough horses and they may be good at drawing but their boring old horses aren’t your magical horse which belongs to only you. And hopefully you can continue to be happy drawing crayon pictures of horses and sharing them with others in your knowledge that they are good and they are unique and they are your own but . . .

Some times you will wake up and see the kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and realize that it isn’t actually your horse at all so you get on a plane and go back to Africa and you search the plains until you find that magical horse and you build a farm and chain that horse to a plough and study that horse every day.  You feed the horse and the horse feeds you by pulling that plough and you learn about horses and how they really are and the horse’s silky mane turns the dun color of dust and its flanks grow stouter and it is beautiful in its honesty.  So you fly back to New York and you draw perfect meticulous drawings of plough horses that show each line of wear on the tack and the dirt of the plough is so expertly rendered you can smell the earth and you share it with others and you all share your great pictures of plough horses and occasionally someone shows a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you roll your eyes because you remember when that was you and hopefully you can stay this way forever happy in your superiority but . . .

Some day you may look at your drawings of plough horses and remember that one magical night on moonlit safari in Africa when you saw that one wild horse so you fly back to Africa, back toyour old horse and your old farm and you stay so long that the horse can’t pull the plough anymore so you hitch yourself to the plough and you feed your old friend and keep his hay sweet and give him oats when his old toothless gums bleed and one day your old friend lays down for his last time and you stay there with him until he expires and maybe, in that last moment, you can see him as the majestic creature he once was – that beautiful horse that appeared in the moonlight so you go back to New York and now you are Keats and you spend the rest of your life writing about everything that’s beautiful with your perfect precision and your beautiful words and people read your writing and they want to display you in their galleries in Soho or have you speak at their functions and you are happy forever.

Well, I hope that is you.  But maybe, and I certainly hope not, but maybe in those last moments with the horse, as you are with him and he is dying, maybe as your mind recaptures the beauty of that horse in the moonlight the scene zooms out and you see something else – a man seeing that horse for the first time and that is when you come to the terrible realization that your poem was never a horse at all but the horrible story of a man that saw something wonderful and spent his life trying to communicate with others.  Your poem is the terrible loneliness of mankind and you stay in Africa all alone trying to find yourself or some way to break free from yourself and smash your body against time like the waves against the shore in the hopeless desperation that is man – lost and alone. Well, I hope that isn’t you, but if it is, I sure would like to read your poem.



Amazing! I'm speechless.

...or you can watch David Attenborough on your 56" LG tv with the window open...and really begin to appreciate gin..
if i'm a professional [keen] runner, i definitely want to know who won what races i took no part in and what their times were. most professionals use the victories of their peers in order to strive to do better.

(01-09-2017, 06:07 AM)Achebe Wrote: [ -> ]But ultimately, poetry is an art where everyone's the performer and no one's there to buy the tickets. Like running - if you're a keen runner you only care about your own timing. And if you're not a keen runner you couldn't care less about the winner of the Berlin marathon anyway.
Except that running gets you fit and poetry gets you depressed.
I hope Trump and Putin ban poetry.
(01-09-2017, 06:07 AM)Achebe Wrote: [ -> ]But ultimately, poetry is an art where everyone's the performer and no one's there to buy the tickets. Like running - if you're a keen runner you only care about your own timing. And if you're not a keen runner you couldn't care less about the winner of the Berlin marathon anyway.
Except that running gets you fit and poetry gets you depressed.
For one, what sort of poetry?* There's epic poetry (with which I would lump most of rap), which only a distinguished few of us can really do, and then there's lyric poetry, where I think the bit of everyone's a performer and no one's there to buy the tickets does apply, albeit because those keen to watch are either pirates or voyeurs. Ie, if you're a keen lyric poet, because I'm assume you're leaning more on lyric poetry here, you'd want to be just as clear or pure or just plain watchable as those you've already watched -- or what billy said.
* -- of course my discussion of genres here sorta follows Frye, who in the corresponding essay also defines prose and drama as poetry, with the distinguishing features among the four being their mimetic forms, their rhythms, and their poet-audience relationships, but I think his is a fine rubric for, and this is purely for the sake of armchair discussion, dividing between prose, drama, and poetry, or at least prose and poetry, if you consider, as the old drama-poets did, a lot of the rhythms of both poetry and prose to hold true in speech (which I think they sort of do), so that drama sort of blurs the line. Epic poetry has a recurrent rhythm, it seeks to represent direct action, and its relationship between poet and audience is that between a speaker (a Homer) and a mass audience (a Greece); lyric poetry has a more loopy, associative rhythm, and a more internal set of symbols. Of course, his use of genres doesn't mean all genres are mutually exclusive, and ultimately he goes into greater depth than that, but that would be beyond the scope of how I used it. 
(01-09-2017, 06:07 AM)Achebe Wrote: [ -> ]I hope Trump and Putin ban poetry.
Trump wouldn't care: the real problem for him is....well, shit, the dude's so oblivious he doesn't have any problems, least of all with Leonard Cohen (that damn Canadian!). And Putin can ban all arts but poetry: he's Russian.
(01-09-2017, 06:03 PM)RiverNotch Wrote: [ -> ]There's epic poetry (with which I would lump most of rap), which only a distinguished few of us can really do, and then there's lyric poetry, where I think the bit of everyone's a performer and no one's there to buy the tickets does apply

It's an understatement to say that a 'distinguished few' of us can write an epic - I think it's more like one in several billions (not including rap in this, which is not hard in the least).
Thinking about writing as opposed to doing it... typical fucking excuse.
(Works for me.)
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