dangit

dang, andyB  deleted out a couple of things i didn’t have saved. that’s rude — i mean, pretty uncultured, not to have told me he was going to delete my stuff in advance. anyone save a copy of my ‘reincarnation’, the one where i say i’m queer because i’m a reincarnation of a japanese woman from the war, who lost her soldier husband, and i’m supposed to come back into the world to take care of him for her, because she failed the last time to keep him safe? here’s a snap of me getting ready to enter the world in this new body. cool body.

getting ready to come back as someone not me before.

N.D.E. ( d. & m. 1959 )

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seas and ripple sands…
a coral island with ponies,
two loony pirate boys
deep in their sleepy tent.

warm is the nightingale,
tee shirts and bed roll;
lizards in heaven,
whisper crescendos.

sweet rips the hurricane,
softly, the tide pulls.
fly to the weathercocks,
twirling like tadpoles;
see that sweet shadow…
boys in the wind rows,
danny and michael.

feathers in a floating sky,
point to the stars below;
drawn to infinity,
they’ll go where the wind goes.

 

 

 

 

 

sadness

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sadness is my light, bright night, bright dark;
see the happy children sing away:
sun makes light; song makes day.
running, playing, happy songs they knew.

hollow is the sound of time, absent;
hear the empty ocean swimming slow…
old day evolves to sea:
father, boy, compose its melody.

softly, earth is spinning down, winding;
touch that rolling bright wheel,
it glows soft:
twilight teaches light to see;
color sings my father’s melody.

we’re a child of lovers’ blandishments:
born a lie, in febrile sweating towns.
heats of stars and smoking
smiles, and children’s happy wedding gowns.

in my heart, a diamond’s burning glow;
beating, run in quicktime, to time, go.
racing with the sunshine: dark grows cold.
shadow prize, for boys who’ve died too slow.

 

blocked and deleted from poetrycircle.com

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been blocked and all my stuff deleted from poetrycircle.com. my ego was bruised for a day, and my vanity — “didn’t any of you realize what i was trying to do?” — sore. with each day though i’m feeling an incredible relief not to have to think of 20 people each time i posted anything there. i had to think first of all of the author, and whether what i’m commenting actually is understandable to him. then, i have to think individually of the good writers on the site, and whether what i’m saying is going to be usable to them — either as teaching-method or poetry rhetoric method. then, too, i had to be true to my own values, and push my thinking outside my little opinion and my as yet unformed understanding of what language and emotion mean.

one other relief is that i was writing a kind of didactic verse, where i was showing different poetry rhetoric moves or different experiential realities to what are basically beginners. i’d started deleting four out of five poems by the end — things i’d posted to show that you must go over the edge to find your edge at all. but, embarrassing. and, i’m always saying everything, because ‘everything’ isn’t the secret. the secret is the unsayable creative moment when the urge forms to make emotion any way i can. that can’t be said because it can only be experienced by someone else when they’re in that space too.

i’m already back to thinking on a higher level than i was before the delete. i can think and write now without having to think that i might use it in a post or comment on the way poetry works in the real world of space and time — with living people. hopefully, as has always happened to me, i’ll have new ways of playing in time from what moves i’ve learned in the dialog. as always, it’s me that has to understand what’s going on and where things might go. i’ve kept awake, kept honest and now it’s time to move forward.

 

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the sweetness of poetry

I’m listening to this incredible veena raga Yaman and it’s bringing to my vision these images of sweet smiling faces of people I’ve talked with over the years. this is a nice, sweet thing. if someone told me of it I would think that that was a nice, sweet thing.

suppose I wrote a poem about it. anything other than, ‘auuuuuuhm, auuuuh, auuuuh, auuuuhm’ would be pretty unrealistic.

suppose I wrote a contrived poem to get you to give me likes…. ‘such sweet sounds from zia mohiuddin dagar winding its way from my lotus posture and out my third eye.’ — all the sweetness is gone, replaced by refined corn syrup. we’re yoked by content and the only way to transcend transaction is to use the form of the poem as content. that is, make art. that’s the secret of haiku and sonnet and all the forms. it’s the poem that’s brilliant, not the wisdom and stand-up.

the only thing that’s real is to accept sensation and add a new sensation to balance yourself.

 

when should i write poetry? ( for alc from poetry critical )

i’m not a poet unless i’m writing a poem. even after i’ve finished one, i’m not a poet, just a reader. readers aren’t poets. we don’t read poetically, don’t get into an arty dress and feel the tragic/comic sense of life passing through our lips as we recite some poem.

i’m not a poet because i feel poetic and start saying beautiful thoughts in a cute way; i’m not hemingway, faking out a macho. i’m not dylan or morrison, faking out a rimbaud rap to get liked; watching them watch me, saying to the crowd, “written poetry is dead, the only real’s what you do in bed.” i’m not that ‘do you like me, mr.?’ kid anymore.

i’m not a poet when i write poetic prose, cutified lawn fauns, like i do. nor are you.

i feel verbal, feel like making words. i start by saying stuff, lie to the page — “the air is round and my heart is high.”

i’ve no idea what this really means, but i see ‘air’ and ‘heart’. that’s the core, and i can visualize and make the necessary connection between them — ‘heart is like…’, ‘air is like…’. if i can find a connection that FEELS emotional to me, i can start to write poetry.

‘heart opens, air closes,
life slips in.
you take off your shirt
slip in the covers
sleep alone’

now i’m at the point where i should start writing poetry, try to find the real in this and what i really want to talk about. start seeing this shirt and this bed — the things the reader can see — and wonder what they’ve really got to do with me.

there’s a problem with poetry today. inferior teachers are teaching us that anything you like is real, without showing you more to like than what they know or can handle. you’re not a poet because you feel poetic, you’re a poet because you’ve written something you can see in a year and not cringe at, because you’ve honestly worked to find the poetry in the poem you’re writing.

this is just my opinion, and all writing is an experiment. i look forward to reading what other writers

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philip guston

 

think is real about poetry for the poet.