12-12-2018, 04:12 AM
I love Yeats. But then again I love a lot of poets. I tend towards the magical side. Yeats, Hugo, Merrill. But, sadly, I think more towards the Crowley-Mathers-Abramelin side of the spectrum. And they were horribe poets.
What do you mean by your group?
In another poem I posted recently, Summer in Autumn, I mentioned Yeats explicitly. Very expilicitly. But I guess I can't expect you to read everything I've ever written. Though I do.
This poem, Crisis-Poem, as a hint. There's some Bible in it. As most western poetry has. And some Wordsworth and Wallace Stevens. Wallace Stevens, I'd kill the muthafuka if he weren't still dead already. And, he's not dead. He's more alive than most of us. Oh shit, I was alluding to my poem on here called Kill Those That Came Before. I don't mean to, but it is a rather incestuous affair, this poetry business. I'd rather be in bed with myself than my mom. My mom who doesn't understand poetry. Or my girlfriend who doesn't. Damn, I reckon I don't have anybody left. Except, of course, Wordsworth, Hugo and Yeats who are all dead. Or are they?
These poets come to me in my dreams. And other people. These figures. Plato comes, Groucho Marx; ever since Prince died, he's been coming. I know this all sounds weird. But I can't get away from it. I drink. But that makes it worse. . . . And it's really troubling. . . . Because if I fail as a writer, I'm not just letting down my family, who hate my writing anyway . . . I'm failing Prince and Socrates and Alexander Pope. . . . A lot of people, old people, old neighbors, compare me to Groucho Marx. In the way I talk. I think, in the way I talk, they'd much rather I'd be Harpo.
What do you mean by your group?
In another poem I posted recently, Summer in Autumn, I mentioned Yeats explicitly. Very expilicitly. But I guess I can't expect you to read everything I've ever written. Though I do.
This poem, Crisis-Poem, as a hint. There's some Bible in it. As most western poetry has. And some Wordsworth and Wallace Stevens. Wallace Stevens, I'd kill the muthafuka if he weren't still dead already. And, he's not dead. He's more alive than most of us. Oh shit, I was alluding to my poem on here called Kill Those That Came Before. I don't mean to, but it is a rather incestuous affair, this poetry business. I'd rather be in bed with myself than my mom. My mom who doesn't understand poetry. Or my girlfriend who doesn't. Damn, I reckon I don't have anybody left. Except, of course, Wordsworth, Hugo and Yeats who are all dead. Or are they?
These poets come to me in my dreams. And other people. These figures. Plato comes, Groucho Marx; ever since Prince died, he's been coming. I know this all sounds weird. But I can't get away from it. I drink. But that makes it worse. . . . And it's really troubling. . . . Because if I fail as a writer, I'm not just letting down my family, who hate my writing anyway . . . I'm failing Prince and Socrates and Alexander Pope. . . . A lot of people, old people, old neighbors, compare me to Groucho Marx. In the way I talk. I think, in the way I talk, they'd much rather I'd be Harpo.