Natural language or don't bother

[matsunosuperfan]

The older I get, the more I read, the less patience I have for affectation in poetry. Even a lot of what I used to think was great poetry, I now think is just okay, mostly because it can't exist without the aid of artifice, without the reader wilfully suspending that particular disbelief and agreeing to indulge with the speaker in the obviously false fantasy that the diction before us on the page is anything the speaker might actually utter in any context other than "poem on the page." 

It is harder to write poetry with plain language because now you actually have to just go find compelling ideas and images. There's no "I don't have much to say but it SOUNDS like I have something to say." You either bring an offering or an empty dish. None of this fancy-Tupperware-holding-a-single-dry-chicken-tender shit. 

Go read some James Tate, a poet who had the nerve to actually explore what a poem is at its essence, with all the emperor's decidedly not-new clothes stripped off. It's good for what ails, we swears, frodo bagginses.

[wasellajam]

The older I get, the more I read, the less patience I have for affectation in poetry. Even a lot of what I used to think was great poetry, I now think is just okay, mostly because it can't exist without the aid of artifice, without the reader wilfully suspending that particular disbelief and agreeing to indulge with the speaker in the obviously false fantasy that the diction before us on the page is anything the speaker might actually utter in any context other than "poem on the page." 

It is harder to write poetry with plain language because now you actually have to just go find compelling ideas and images. There's no "I don't have much to say but it SOUNDS like I have something to say." You either bring an offering or an empty dish. None of this fancy-Tupperware-holding-a-single-dry-chicken-tender shit. 

Go read some James Tate, a poet who had the nerve to actually explore what a poem is at its essence, with all the emperor's decidedly not-new clothes stripped off. It's good for what ails, we swears, frodo bagginses.

Yes, it’s difficult but can be done. Mercedes Webb-Pullman was a master of form in casual language. She has a lot of poems posted here but unsearchable at her request. One of my favorites is on the sestina practice threads, it just stuck with me, made me forget I was on a form thread.

I live alone, in the bush, just below
McInally mountain, part of the high
alpine range. Canberra’s lights reflect
from clouds to the north, their shine
reduced by distance to a glow. My river
joins the Murrumbidgee, becomes their water.

I generate power, pump my own water,
collect firewood for free, fish in the pools below.
I watch from my bed, look down on the river
for food, like a kingfisher perching on high
but I can’t fly like him, a fast arrow shine
of blue. I am lonely, blue too, I reflect.

As I finish work I hear loud music, reflect
on loneliness, decide a bourbon and water
before driving home might put a shine
on my day. I stand at the bar chatting; below
on the dance floor dancers gyrate, high
on energy, moving like a flooded river.

It’s been raining. I wonder if I’ll cross the river
tonight. If I can’t see the white rock reflect
in the crossing, the river is running too high
for me. I’ve already lost a car to the water
this year. The rock shows the safe level below.
I won’t cross if I can’t see it shine.

In the bar’s darkness, teeth and eyes shine.
I meet a man with dark hair like a river
that flows down his back. He gestures below
to the dancers. His welcoming eyes reflect
my smile. He leads, I follow like water
this stranger. I want him. I want to get high

on music, dancing, getting to know him, high
on life again. I laugh, and watch his eyes shine
like ripples of moonlight playing on water.
Something’s starting. As raindrops join in a river
we’re moving together. Our shadows reflect
only one. We’re joined above and below.

We stand high on a cliff overlooking a river
through new land. Stars shine around us, reflect
new patterns emerging in the water below.

- just mercedes

I can’t imagine writing a sestina where the form disappears but it seems it can be done with a lot of practice and a shitload of talent.

Oh, and I am done with the myths. We’re drenched in the human experience in our modern age, there must be a way to say it without referring to ancient stories.

Bitching about other people’s poems is a great way to not write my own, isn’t it?

[matsunosuperfan]

The older I get, the more I read, the less patience I have for affectation in poetry. Even a lot of what I used to think was great poetry, I now think is just okay, mostly because it can't exist without the aid of artifice, without the reader wilfully suspending that particular disbelief and agreeing to indulge with the speaker in the obviously false fantasy that the diction before us on the page is anything the speaker might actually utter in any context other than "poem on the page." 

It is harder to write poetry with plain language because now you actually have to just go find compelling ideas and images. There's no "I don't have much to say but it SOUNDS like I have something to say." You either bring an offering or an empty dish. None of this fancy-Tupperware-holding-a-single-dry-chicken-tender shit. 

Go read some James Tate, a poet who had the nerve to actually explore what a poem is at its essence, with all the emperor's decidedly not-new clothes stripped off. It's good for what ails, we swears, frodo bagginses.

Yes, it’s difficult but can be done. Mercedes Webb-Pullman was a master of form in casual language. She has a lot of poems posted here but unsearchable at her request. One of my favorites is on the sestina practice threads, it just stuck with me, made me forget I was on a form thread.

I live alone, in the bush, just below
McInally mountain, part of the high
alpine range. Canberra’s lights reflect
from clouds to the north, their shine
reduced by distance to a glow. My river
joins the Murrumbidgee, becomes their water.

I generate power, pump my own water,
collect firewood for free, fish in the pools below.
I watch from my bed, look down on the river
for food, like a kingfisher perching on high
but I can’t fly like him, a fast arrow shine
of blue. I am lonely, blue too, I reflect.

As I finish work I hear loud music, reflect
on loneliness, decide a bourbon and water
before driving home might put a shine
on my day. I stand at the bar chatting; below
on the dance floor dancers gyrate, high
on energy, moving like a flooded river.

It’s been raining. I wonder if I’ll cross the river
tonight. If I can’t see the white rock reflect
in the crossing, the river is running too high
for me. I’ve already lost a car to the water
this year. The rock shows the safe level below.
I won’t cross if I can’t see it shine.

In the bar’s darkness, teeth and eyes shine.
I meet a man with dark hair like a river
that flows down his back. He gestures below
to the dancers. His welcoming eyes reflect
my smile. He leads, I follow like water
this stranger. I want him. I want to get high

on music, dancing, getting to know him, high
on life again. I laugh, and watch his eyes shine
like ripples of moonlight playing on water.
Something’s starting. As raindrops join in a river
we’re moving together. Our shadows reflect
only one. We’re joined above and below.

We stand high on a cliff overlooking a river
through new land. Stars shine around us, reflect
new patterns emerging in the water below.

- just mercedes

I can’t imagine writing a sestina where the form disappears but it seems it can be done with a lot of practice and a shitload of talent.

Oh, and I am done with the myths. We’re drenched in the human experience in our modern age, there must be a way to say it without referring to ancient stories.

Bitching about other people’s poems is a great way to not write my own, isn’t it?

Damn, that's great

[milo]

The older I get, the more I read, the less patience I have for affectation in poetry. Even a lot of what I used to think was great poetry, I now think is just okay, mostly because it can't exist without the aid of artifice, without the reader wilfully suspending that particular disbelief and agreeing to indulge with the speaker in the obviously false fantasy that the diction before us on the page is anything the speaker might actually utter in any context other than "poem on the page." 

It is harder to write poetry with plain language because now you actually have to just go find compelling ideas and images. There's no "I don't have much to say but it SOUNDS like I have something to say." You either bring an offering or an empty dish. None of this fancy-Tupperware-holding-a-single-dry-chicken-tender shit. 

Go read some James Tate, a poet who had the nerve to actually explore what a poem is at its essence, with all the emperor's decidedly not-new clothes stripped off. It's good for what ails, we swears, frodo bagginses.

We are 40 years deep in the "natural language" poetry movement and to be honest - a lot of it bores me now as it all sounds the same.

[matsunosuperfan]

The older I get, the more I read, the less patience I have for affectation in poetry. Even a lot of what I used to think was great poetry, I now think is just okay, mostly because it can't exist without the aid of artifice, without the reader wilfully suspending that particular disbelief and agreeing to indulge with the speaker in the obviously false fantasy that the diction before us on the page is anything the speaker might actually utter in any context other than "poem on the page." 

It is harder to write poetry with plain language because now you actually have to just go find compelling ideas and images. There's no "I don't have much to say but it SOUNDS like I have something to say." You either bring an offering or an empty dish. None of this fancy-Tupperware-holding-a-single-dry-chicken-tender shit. 

Go read some James Tate, a poet who had the nerve to actually explore what a poem is at its essence, with all the emperor's decidedly not-new clothes stripped off. It's good for what ails, we swears, frodo bagginses.

We are 40 years deep in the "natural language" poetry movement and to be honest - a lot of it bores me now as it all sounds the same.

No I totally feel you, I mean that's the risk, right? Hopkins got to be like "look, a fucking bird, praise the Lord and shit" and it was cool that he actually didn't have anything else to say because it sounded like creme brulee in word form. If you're actually operating in the contemporary vernacular, then unless you come up with a captivating, original gesture or thought your poem will just be kind of drab. 

Pick yer poison, I guess!

[milo]

The older I get, the more I read, the less patience I have for affectation in poetry. Even a lot of what I used to think was great poetry, I now think is just okay, mostly because it can't exist without the aid of artifice, without the reader wilfully suspending that particular disbelief and agreeing to indulge with the speaker in the obviously false fantasy that the diction before us on the page is anything the speaker might actually utter in any context other than "poem on the page." 

It is harder to write poetry with plain language because now you actually have to just go find compelling ideas and images. There's no "I don't have much to say but it SOUNDS like I have something to say." You either bring an offering or an empty dish. None of this fancy-Tupperware-holding-a-single-dry-chicken-tender shit. 

Go read some James Tate, a poet who had the nerve to actually explore what a poem is at its essence, with all the emperor's decidedly not-new clothes stripped off. It's good for what ails, we swears, frodo bagginses.

We are 40 years deep in the "natural language" poetry movement and to be honest - a lot of it bores me now as it all sounds the same.

No I totally feel you, I mean that's the risk, right? Hopkins got to be like "look, a fucking bird, praise the Lord and shit" and it was cool that he actually didn't have anything else to say because it sounded like creme brulee in word form. If you're actually operating in the contemporary vernacular, then unless you come up with a captivating, original gesture or thought your poem will just be kind of drab. 

Pick yer poison, I guess!

It's true and if Duchamp hadn't already preceded the movement by 40 years I fear we would now be heartily declaring only ready-mades to be true art as only they represent the world as it truly is.  It was fun for a bit but the modern world is so saturated with dull prose already it all ends up a big yawn.

[matsunosuperfan]

We are 40 years deep in the "natural language" poetry movement and to be honest - a lot of it bores me now as it all sounds the same.

No I totally feel you, I mean that's the risk, right? Hopkins got to be like "look, a fucking bird, praise the Lord and shit" and it was cool that he actually didn't have anything else to say because it sounded like creme brulee in word form. If you're actually operating in the contemporary vernacular, then unless you come up with a captivating, original gesture or thought your poem will just be kind of drab. 

Pick yer poison, I guess!

It's true and if Duchamp hadn't already preceded the movement by 40 years I fear we would now be heartily declaring only ready-mades to be true art as only they represent the world as it truly is.  It was fun for a bit but the modern world is so saturated with dull prose already it all ends up a big yawn.

Eleven Beers
by Tom Snarsky

Whenever Sid would drink, he would drink
Eleven beers. This created some logistical
Problems, including a bad stomach and no
Driver’s license, but one advantage was the
One beer left over from the twelve-pack:
Sid would save the flimsy paperboard from
One of the twelve-packs, slowly filling it with
Survivors, though their survival was only
Temporary. Then when it was filled up
All the way Sid would go out to the lake,
Drink eleven beers, and instead of saving
One like usual he would open the last beer
And pour it into the water, where the little
Bluegill would be visibly confused in the
Shallows. One time, driving home from the
Lake, Sid didn’t notice the blue heron in the
Right lane, standing, but since he’d swerved
So far over the midline anyway the bird,
Instead of being killed, flew safely away.

[milo]

No I totally feel you, I mean that's the risk, right? Hopkins got to be like "look, a fucking bird, praise the Lord and shit" and it was cool that he actually didn't have anything else to say because it sounded like creme brulee in word form. If you're actually operating in the contemporary vernacular, then unless you come up with a captivating, original gesture or thought your poem will just be kind of drab. 

Pick yer poison, I guess!

It's true and if Duchamp hadn't already preceded the movement by 40 years I fear we would now be heartily declaring only ready-mades to be true art as only they represent the world as it truly is.  It was fun for a bit but the modern world is so saturated with dull prose already it all ends up a big yawn.

Eleven Beers
by Tom Snarsky

Whenever Sid would drink, he would drink
Eleven beers. This created some logistical
Problems, including a bad stomach and no
Driver’s license, but one advantage was the
One beer left over from the twelve-pack:
Sid would save the flimsy paperboard from
One of the twelve-packs, slowly filling it with
Survivors, though their survival was only
Temporary. Then when it was filled up
All the way Sid would go out to the lake,
Drink eleven beers, and instead of saving
One like usual he would open the last beer
And pour it into the water, where the little
Bluegill would be visibly confused in the
Shallows. One time, driving home from the
Lake, Sid didn’t notice the blue heron in the
Right lane, standing, but since he’d swerved
So far over the midline anyway the bird,
Instead of being killed, flew safely away.

I, of course, have a personal soft spot for poems about beer . . .

[busker]

The older I get, the more I read, the less patience I have for affectation in poetry. Even a lot of what I used to think was great poetry, I now think is just okay, mostly because it can't exist without the aid of artifice, without the reader wilfully suspending that particular disbelief and agreeing to indulge with the speaker in the obviously false fantasy that the diction before us on the page is anything the speaker might actually utter in any context other than "poem on the page." 

It is harder to write poetry with plain language because now you actually have to just go find compelling ideas and images. There's no "I don't have much to say but it SOUNDS like I have something to say." You either bring an offering or an empty dish. None of this fancy-Tupperware-holding-a-single-dry-chicken-tender shit. 

Go read some James Tate, a poet who had the nerve to actually explore what a poem is at its essence, with all the emperor's decidedly not-new clothes stripped off. It's good for what ails, we swears, frodo bagginses.

There are obviously different kinds kd poetry, and a surfeit of bland everyday language poems has its own drawback.
Is Dylan Thomas affected? Of course, but would that we all were similarly affected
A lot of modern poetry gives you forgettable epiphanies in trying to be natural all the time. Natural speech is overrated. Most people have nothing to say.

---

Like the Tom Snarskt pome.
I wish Tom could be magically transported to Sudan where he’s find things to talk about other than his fake suburban first world meditations.
I don’t care about your fucking beers and friends in Idaho with drinking problems. If you grew up with new leather shoes every year then you shouldn’t write poetry. Or write only love poetry and religious poetry. Otherwise I’m not interested in your vapid middle class art with its predictable nothingness. I’d rather watch an instagram reel.

[matsunosuperfan]

The older I get, the more I read, the less patience I have for affectation in poetry. Even a lot of what I used to think was great poetry, I now think is just okay, mostly because it can't exist without the aid of artifice, without the reader wilfully suspending that particular disbelief and agreeing to indulge with the speaker in the obviously false fantasy that the diction before us on the page is anything the speaker might actually utter in any context other than "poem on the page." 

It is harder to write poetry with plain language because now you actually have to just go find compelling ideas and images. There's no "I don't have much to say but it SOUNDS like I have something to say." You either bring an offering or an empty dish. None of this fancy-Tupperware-holding-a-single-dry-chicken-tender shit. 

Go read some James Tate, a poet who had the nerve to actually explore what a poem is at its essence, with all the emperor's decidedly not-new clothes stripped off. It's good for what ails, we swears, frodo bagginses.

There are obviously different kinds kd poetry, and a surfeit of bland everyday language poems has its own drawback.
Is Dylan Thomas affected? Of course, but would that we all were similarly affected
A lot of modern poetry gives you forgettable epiphanies in trying to be natural all the time. Natural speech is overrated. Most people have nothing to say.

---

Like the Tom Snarskt pome.
I wish Tom could be magically transported to Sudan where he’s find things to talk about other than his fake suburban first world meditations.
I don’t care about your fucking beers and friends in Idaho with drinking problems. If you grew up with new leather shoes every year then you shouldn’t write poetry. Or write only love poetry and religious poetry. Otherwise I’m not interested in your vapid middle class art with its predictable nothingness. I’d rather watch an instagram reel.

What an intellectually and emotionally lazy opinion

[busker]

The older I get, the more I read, the less patience I have for affectation in poetry. Even a lot of what I used to think was great poetry, I now think is just okay, mostly because it can't exist without the aid of artifice, without the reader wilfully suspending that particular disbelief and agreeing to indulge with the speaker in the obviously false fantasy that the diction before us on the page is anything the speaker might actually utter in any context other than "poem on the page." 

It is harder to write poetry with plain language because now you actually have to just go find compelling ideas and images. There's no "I don't have much to say but it SOUNDS like I have something to say." You either bring an offering or an empty dish. None of this fancy-Tupperware-holding-a-single-dry-chicken-tender shit. 

Go read some James Tate, a poet who had the nerve to actually explore what a poem is at its essence, with all the emperor's decidedly not-new clothes stripped off. It's good for what ails, we swears, frodo bagginses.

There are obviously different kinds kd poetry, and a surfeit of bland everyday language poems has its own drawback.
Is Dylan Thomas affected? Of course, but would that we all were similarly affected
A lot of modern poetry gives you forgettable epiphanies in trying to be natural all the time. Natural speech is overrated. Most people have nothing to say.

---

Like the Tom Snarskt pome.
I wish Tom could be magically transported to Sudan where he’s find things to talk about other than his fake suburban first world meditations.
I don’t care about your fucking beers and friends in Idaho with drinking problems. If you grew up with new leather shoes every year then you shouldn’t write poetry. Or write only love poetry and religious poetry. Otherwise I’m not interested in your vapid middle class art with its predictable nothingness. I’d rather watch an instagram reel.

What an intellectually and emotionally lazy opinion

I took you at your word and read James Tate. I want my five minutes back.
See, in real life I have no time for utterly brain dead suburban creatures, professor or not. And James Tate writes about people presumably like himself or those around him. Utterly vapid suburban creatures. With zero experience of the wider world. With no real intellectual life. If that is what his poetry is about / perhaps he’s written something good at some point, I only read three - then I’d rather watch Family Guy on YouTube.

That’s a well considered opinion

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrym...=4&page=31

---

Egad, what a dull poem. Like JD Salinger in verse.

[matsunosuperfan]

Goodtime Jesus
by James Tate

Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been
dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What
was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes
rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn’t afraid of that. It was
a beautiful day. How ’bout some coffee? Don’t mind if I do.
Take a little ride on my donkey, I love that donkey. Hell, I
love everybody.

---

It Happens Like This
by James Tate
  
I was outside St. Cecelia's Rectory
smoking a cigarette when a goat appeared beside me.
It was mostly black and white, with a little reddish
brown here and there. When I started to walk away,
it followed. I was amused and delighted, but wondered
what the laws were on this kind of thing. There's
a leash law for dogs, but what about goats? People
smiled at me and admired the goat. "It's not my goat,"
I explained. "It's the town's goat. I'm just taking
my turn caring for it." "I didn't know we had a goat,"
one of them said. "I wonder when my turn is." "Soon,"
I said. "Be patient. Your time is coming." The goat
stayed by my side. It stopped when I stopped. It looked
up at me and I stared into its eyes. I felt he knew
everything essential about me. We walked on. A police-
man on his beat looked us over. "That's a mighty
fine goat you got there," he said, stopping to admire.
"It's the town's goat," I said. "His family goes back
three-hundred years with us," I said, "from the beginning."
The officer leaned forward to touch him, then stopped
and looked up at me. "Mind if I pat him?" he asked.
"Touching this goat will change your life," I said.
"It's your decision." He thought real hard for a minute,
and then stood up and said, "What's his name?" "He's
called the Prince of Peace," I said. "God! This town
is like a fairy tale. Everywhere you turn there's mystery
and wonder. And I'm just a child playing cops and robbers
forever. Please forgive me if I cry." "We forgive you,
Officer," I said. "And we understand why you, more than
anybody, should never touch the Prince." The goat and
I walked on. It was getting dark and we were beginning
to wonder where we would spend the night.

[busker]

I’ll tell you what my problem with the first poem is.
Jesus’s ride on a donkey into Jerusalem was deliberate. It was his way of fulfilling the messianic prophecy, because he thought he was the messiah John the Baptist promised. He probably didn’t expect to get crucified, but his thoughts weren’t absent, they were quite focused on causing a ruckus in Jerusalem. That’s the historical context.

So where’s the irony in the poem?

[matsunosuperfan]

I’ll tell you what my problem with the first poem is.
Jesus’s ride on a donkey into Jerusalem was deliberate. It was his way of fulfilling the messianic prophecy, because he thought he was the messiah John the Baptist promised. He probably didn’t expect to get crucified, but his thoughts weren’t absent, they were quite focused on causing a ruckus in Jerusalem. That’s the historical context.

So where’s the irony in the poem?

I'm not really sure irony is the word for anything that's happening here. I think it's a big-hearted, joyful, unafraid poem. I don't think the poem is calling Jesus thoughtless, it's just that he's just woken up. It be's like that sometime.