If we take it as read....

[abu nuwas]

that there will be no deafening final answer, do you think that being prolific is a sign of a true writer, or that the guy(ess) who produces a handful of slim volumes and then 'Selected Works' and 'Complete Works' throughout his career?

In the prolific corner, stands Tennyson. I have come to love his rich language, and many lines are in everyday use...and yet, he did write too much.

The writer who irritatingly doesn't spring to mind in the other corner would be that German novelist, who has only written a few, very long, books, one about Amsel, and one called 'The Flounder'. Sorry, I just can't recall his name, as I am having a Senior Moment.


And where do you place yourself?

[Leanne]

There are many writers who I wish had written more, and many who I wish had written a good deal less With many writers, like Tennyson, it's more the tenor of their poetry that appeals to me than specific poems, so I enjoy immersing myself. Perhaps he wrote too much, but then I've not read all of it! I have come across several writers of all genres who are almost certainly writing because they can't think of anything else to do, having been defined early in their lives (by themselves or others) as writers. So I suppose a true writer keeps writing until there's just no good stuff left amongst all the crap they churn out... because no matter how good a writer is, there's bound to be some garbage.

I think my own experience with writing is a fairly common one -- when I was younger and everything seemed new, I'd write every day. Some of those things I don't completely hate as they are, some have been cannibalised and turned into something better, and some I've just written off as a learning experience. These days I write mostly in my head, occasionally scribbling down a line or two that I think might not suck too badly, and wait until something really strikes me before I engage in the physical act of making sweet poetry. I really only write one or two completely new things every few months, though I do regularly check through old stuff because I genuinely love the editing process.

[Erthona]

You make a point Leanne, Tennyson's style is more memorable than any specific poem, although the Lady of Shallot is often mentioned, it is hardly his best effort. Only the Bard it seemed was writing at the level of Genius through most of his works. Even someone like Coleridge, who I consider one of the greatest English poets, really only wrote three poem at that level. Someone like Milton, who handled the verse form well enough, is still remembered mostly for the epic content and not as being a master of the medium. There seem to be only a few instances among those writers generally considered great, where they actually were. Outside of curiosity is there really any reason to read Coleridge's "To a young ass with his mother tethered near by"? 99% of what has in the past been published was more a response to need, than to the fact that there was something of excellence to print, and it seems with the increased accessibility of the publishing tools by individuals ever more refuse enters into the public forum everyday.

Dale

[Leanne]

I'd dispute the Bard, I'm afraid... at least 153 of the sonnets shouldn't be bothered with :p

[billy]

i know a few who write all the time and it's basically crap.
i only know of two books by Hesse and he was a laureate, i think. but i may have missed a load of his work.
i think a true writer is true to the art of writing. not necessarily reams of work but constantly above average when they do write, with a few really good pieces that stand out as excellent. i think a prolific writer is guaranteed to do one thing and one thing only; write a lot. i don't think the love of writing coupled with prolific, equates to a true writer either. quality has to play a major role. i'm not on about grammar, i'm on about content, originality. does it move you more than a hard boiled egg.
i'd say william is a true writer, mainly because of the plays. and of course he was prolific.


my experience with writing: as a kid (6 to 12) i lived on the streets (not flogging my body ) and in children's homes. i taught myself to read from old newspapers and mag's i'd find laying around. needless to say i wrote very little and certainly not poetry. i had very very little schooling . i came to poetry; writing, about ten years ago but i was never prolific. nor will i ever be a true writer. i did about 14 chapters of a book and stopped for one reason or another, now i can't remember what i wrote i'd love to be a good writer, a true writer, but i don't have the determination to see it through.

[rayheinrich]

Doesn't seem to me as if there's much correlation between published output
and 'quality'. Though I do tend to remember writers I like who haven't published
that much, as I tend to remember yearning. (My favorites Susan Mitchell and
George Oppen come to mind.)

[Wildcard]

It also depends on the time frame and circumstances of the author. There are times that get hard enough that writing for Hallmark doesn't sound so bad if there is a check involved. I don't know a lot about poetry, but I've read a lot of autobiography/biography stuff from fiction writers from the early twentieth century and a reoccurring regret is that they churned out too many books too quickly at first, but it was always because their economic situation demanded it.

I exist in a world where poetry if for women, nerds and Valentine's day- the bar is set so low that anything that sounds intelligent strung together can get you laid because nobody know or cares what poetry is. I can't really say why I care, but I do. I want to understand what I read instead of feeling like I'm always out of the loop. I want to write something I can really be proud of. In the meantime, I will churn out just as much drivel as I can feel inspired to write It's a numbers game . . .

[Erthona]

Billy - Ray,

Generally a writer has a lot of stuff out there that you wouldn't think to look for. Most poets have generally tried their hand at poetic criticism, if not some treatise on their philosophy of poetry. There are generally a number of articles and talks/lectures.

Billy, here is a very partial listing Hesse's works he wrote for his Nobel Prize:

"the stories Knulp (1915), Demian (1919), Siddhartha (1922), Der Steppenwolf (1927) [Steppenwolf], Narziss und Goldmund. (1930), Die Morgenlandfahrt (1932) [The Journey to the East], and Das Glasperlenspiel (1943) [Magister Ludi]. The volume Gedenkblätter (1937, enlarged ed. 1962) [Reminiscences] contains a good many autobiographical things. My essays on political topics have recently been published in Zürich under the title Krieg und Frieden (1946) [War and Peace]."

He also wrote his autobiography, as well as an edition of his collected poems; a novel "Peter Camenzind" and " Glasperlenspiel (1943) [Magister Ludi], a novel in two volumes."

For a more complete listing go to http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/l...-bibl.html

Keeping in mind that he wrote mostly in German, and not everything has been translated.

Mark,

I can churn out Hallmark verse,
and sometimes, something even worse,
when there's some pressing need
and money to supply my greed
(My ego, of course, you need not feed!).


Leannjolina,

"I'd dispute the Bard, I'm afraid... at least 153 of the sonnets shouldn't be bothered with"

Oh well, I hardly consider his sonnets, in that respect he probably does follow the norm. I was thinking more of his plays, which are after all, generally poems in the form of a play.

However, I think Sir Philip was near his equal in the sonnet form, although a tad less coy , but then Sidney was not pretending to be gay. Shakespeare was quite adapt at writing at or for a particular audience, I see no reason why his poems would be any different, or that he might have divided those audiences into groups based on a particular idiom. Anyone who can think up the device he does in "12th Night", where you have a young man playing the part of a young woman (Viola), who is a girl, pretending to be a man. In other words, he plays himself...well mostly. If Shakespeare could fabricate such a wonderfully twisted piece of satire condemning the sensibilities of a male dominated society ruled by a Queen that would not allow women to be actors, I think one can see him extending such swipes into his poetry. You can see him do the same flip-flop in any number of his comedies, where the woman is obviously at least the equal of a man intellectually, if not his superior. If one were to suspect Shakespeare of anything, it would be of being a woman. However, a notable fact about genius, is that it quickly notices any inequalities, for it rapidly sees through the weak arguments that justify such inequalities, and being aware of such, it is obligated to at least spread the word. Should you wish to make the mistake of equating a gay man, with a straight woman, then you can dance with garters crossed, however, I shall not provide the music for your very unwoman-like posturing! And remember, if you want your money returned to you, make sure you have the brother and not the sister.

After all, in terms of being a woman in a man's world, ""Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust into them."



Dale

[billy]

Billy - Ray,



Billy, here is a very partial listing Hesse's works he wrote for his Nobel Prize:

"the stories Knulp (1915), Demian (1919), Siddhartha (1922), Der Steppenwolf (1927) [Steppenwolf], Narziss und Goldmund. (1930), Die Morgenlandfahrt (1932) [The Journey to the East], and Das Glasperlenspiel (1943) [Magister Ludi]. The volume Gedenkblätter (1937, enlarged ed. 1962) [Reminiscences] contains a good many autobiographical things. My essays on political topics have recently been published in Zürich under the title Krieg und Frieden (1946) [War and Peace]."

He also wrote his autobiography, as well as an edition of his collected poems; a novel "Peter Camenzind" and " Glasperlenspiel (1943) [Magister Ludi], a novel in two volumes."

so he didn't write that much then
the glass bead game is one of my all time favourite books.
never got into siddhartha.

[Erthona]

I never cared for "Steppenwolf" (although I did like "Magic Carpet Ride"), too much like Camus and Sartre: sterile.

[abu nuwas]

The bloke I had in mind, or rather did not have in mind, in my original post was Gunther Grass, he of 'The Tin Drum'. I have now, courtesy of wiki, found out that although he wrote few novels, he did write other stuff, essays some poems and so on. I also note that v late in life, he owned up to having been in the Waffen-SS.

How much can anyone get through? Kipling wrote over 1000 poems-- maybe the best is not 'If..' but something long-forgotten? Hum.

[Leanne]

I still think one of the best things Shelley wrote is his "Defence of Poetry" essay; similarly, Coleridge's "Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit" makes great reading and even Eliot wrote an essay or two that doesn't annoy me ("The Perfect Critic" springs to mind). I tend to think that once the initial passion of poetry has settled and one can properly reflect on the process, more profound thoughts emerge. In the case of these famous poets, I believe that successive generations of readers have been coloured by these more profound thoughts and applied them (often unconsciously) to the poems themselves, saying "he believed thus-and-so, therefore this image is a representation of this belief". When we learn about the classics, we (hopefully) learn from someone who is -- I hesitate to say "tainted", but there you are -- by prior knowledge of the author, thus the filter is set. This ties in with your idea of how artistic taste develops, Edward.

When a great author, and there have been many, writes a large body of work we cannot help but find at least one or two pieces that speak to us. For myself, I greatly prefer "Gunga Din" to "If...", as much as I appreciate "If..." as a wonderful poem. The authors that produce but one or two masterpieces in their entire lives, however -- well, perhaps they're the greatest artists after all, since we have so little to choose from and no safety net.

[abu nuwas]

I still think one of the best things Shelley wrote is his "Defence of Poetry" essay; similarly, Coleridge's "Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit" makes great reading and even Eliot wrote an essay or two that doesn't annoy me ("The Perfect Critic" springs to mind). I tend to think that once the initial passion of poetry has settled and one can properly reflect on the process, more profound thoughts emerge. In the case of these famous poets, I believe that successive generations of readers have been coloured by these more profound thoughts and applied them (often unconsciously) to the poems themselves, saying "he believed thus-and-so, therefore this image is a representation of this belief". When we learn about the classics, we (hopefully) learn from someone who is -- I hesitate to say "tainted", but there you are -- by prior knowledge of the author, thus the filter is set. This ties in with your idea of how artistic taste develops, Edward.

When a great author, and there have been many, writes a large body of work we cannot help but find at least one or two pieces that speak to us. For myself, I greatly prefer "Gunga Din" to "If...", as much as I appreciate "If..." as a wonderful poem. The authors that produce but one or two masterpieces in their entire lives, however -- well, perhaps they're the greatest artists after all, since we have so little to choose from and no safety net.

Oh no, more insights! Can't you be a bit thick and plainly wrong, sometimes!

There are many ways of tainting of course: knowing what the writer has asserted elsewhere, or knowing about their life. Some years ago, it was put into sharp focus regarding some sculptures which Eric Gill had done years before, in Westminster Cathedral. His unconventional life, turned out to have been more unconventional than previously thought: sexual abuse of his children, incest with his sister, sex with his dog (yes,really!). So what about the sculptures? They were still what they had been. But I could not pass Broadcasting House (where there are some more) without associating my thoughts about the quality, with these claims. I see it as similar to the old conundrum about make a friend, who you subsequently find, is fabulously wealthy. They come as a package, and you cannot 'unknow' what you have discovered.

Re Kipling, I like many, and wish I had lived at his home 'Batemans'. He did get close to be 'serious' while appealing to your ordinary bloke--he was enormously popular in his day, and I believe his funeral was like a state funeral. No 21 gun salute for me, I fear..

[rayheinrich]

Sort of been addressed but...

Lots depends on how close a particular writer holds his work.
There are many who carefully destroy anything below (their) par,
and others with tiny zen-like egos who let everything flow.
And there is always the stuff you can't control (death, lawsuits,
relatives, whatever): I can remember when Sylvia Plath's* juvenilia
became available, remember how much discussion and re-evaluation
that caused. For most, the 'quality' of her work did not change.

So abu: I guess objectivity is easier to judge objectively when events
happen in reverse.


*Oh, give her a break... do we discuss the "Jimmy Hendrix / James Dean /
John Toole syndrome" on another thread?

[Leanne]

Aaargh, the "better off dead" dilemma of the artiste with the posh e...

I find I am more impressed with an artist's masterwork if I can see the process that's gone into it. Perhaps it's simply that I feel closer to a writer who is human enough to produce crap sometimes And I'm afraid I simply do not hold with fanatics who will gush about everything an artist has ever produced, or buy their sweat bands on ebay, or build them impossibly tall pedestals so that they are untouchably above humankind.

For all that I love the sparkling wit and sarcasm of Oscar Wilde, and I adore the elegant aesthetics of his verse, it is "De Profundis" that leaves my throat raw and stops my heart. Had I read nothing else of his, that one essay would be enough to catapult him to the top of my list. And yet, I wouldn't have left him alone with my husband It is the ability to be essentially human that most endears an artist to me. If that is not communicated in a thousand poems, novels, essays, whatever, no matter how technically brilliant they may be deemed, then I'm just not interested.

[Erthona]

Art is not done on demand, yet what is an artist to do when he is not able to do art? He has to produce something in order to make a living. And then, to cloudy the water further, as Leanne mentioned, there are always the sycophants who know so little, that they declare even his morning shit a work of genius. As P. T. said...

As art is in the business of the Truth, I guess it makes sense there would be so much deceit surrounding it.

Dale

[Leanne]

The thought of writing "on demand" makes me shudder. Though I've occasionally written to a prompt, I dislike it intensely, and I have no wish to prostitute myself to the almighty dollar. Having said that, I'm not starving quite yet, who knows what I'll do in the future?

It's a very fortunate writer who can tap into a market that will pay for what he produces on a whim. Although I'm not sure that such a writer should necessarily be deemed a great artist; usually, such a writer is simply someone who's shagged someone famous and written a memoir.

[billy]

The bloke I had in mind, or rather did not have in mind, in my original post was Gunther Grass, he of 'The Tin Drum'. I have now, courtesy of wiki, found out that although he wrote few novels, he did write other stuff, essays some poems and so on. I also note that v late in life, he owned up to having been in the Waffen-SS.

How much can anyone get through? Kipling wrote over 1000 poems-- maybe the best is not 'If..' but something long-forgotten? Hum.

some of his ballads are superb

[Erthona]

Of all the poems I've read,
nothing so delights me head,
as that Kipling poem he titled Gunga Din.
For me it was that "if",
it seemed a trifling too stiff,
and was a tiny bit too hard and mean.
So give me Din, Din, Din,
read it nice or read it mean.
I don't care what you do think,
unless you're 'pared to buy the drinks,
and then fast as a wink
I'll quickly shift my wit,,
and raise my glass and toast that poem called if...


Dale

[abu nuwas]

I like this one -- I am sure not everyone will pick up its many layers!



Danny Deever

Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936)

“WHAT are the bugles blowin’ for?” said Files-on-Parade.
“To turn you out, to turn you out,” the Color-Sergeant said.
“What makes you look so white, so white?” said Files-on-Parade.
“I ’m dreadin’ what I ’ve got to watch,” the Color-Sergeant said.
For they ’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The regiment’s in ’ollow square—they ’re hangin’ him to-day;
They ’ve taken of his buttons off an’ cut his stripes away,
An’ they ’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

“What makes the rear-rank breathe so ’ard?” said Files-on-Parade.
“It ’s bitter cold, it ’s bitter cold,” the Color-Sergeant said.
“What makes that front-rank man fall down?” says Files-on-Parade.
“A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun,” the Color-Sergeant said.
They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’ of ’im round,
They’ave ’alted Danny Deever by ’is coffin on the ground;
An’ ’e’ll swing in ’arf a minute for a sneakin’ shootin’ hound—
O they ’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!

“’Is cot was right-’and cot to mine,” said Files-on-Parade.
“’E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night,” the Color-Sergeant said.
“I ’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times,” said Files-on-Parade.
“’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone,” the Color-Sergeant said.
They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark ’im to ’is place,
For ’e shot a comrade sleepin’—you must look ’im in the face;
Nine ’undred of ’is county an’ the regiment’s disgrace,
While they ’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.



“What ’s that so black agin the sun?” said Files-on-Parade.
“It ’s Danny fightin’ ’ard for life,” the Color-Sergeant said.
“What ’s that that whimpers over’ead?” said Files-on-Parade.
“It ’s Danny’s soul that ’s passin’ now,” the Color-Sergeant said.
For they ’re done with Danny Deever, you can ’ear the quickstep play,
The regiment’s in column, an’ they ’re marchin’ us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they ’ll want their beer to-day,
After hangin’ Dannv Deever in the mornin’.


















CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC