Bad Poetry Unearthed While Cleaning

The following poem was found while reorganizing some papers. It was written by me circa 2002, it is bad and silly, clearly a desperate effort to imitate Ginsberg, and, most importantly, it saves me from actually having to compose a blog entry. As more bad poetry crops up, I will be post it here. However, to get the full effect of its awfulness, I have recorded an audio version (MP3).

Crystal droplets collide beneath interminable recesses
Ruby flowing ‘gainst untouched crack vials
Amphetamine fury dappling touching his hard physique
Fortified by the Almighty Dollar, corrupt Christian sentiments
The narcotic sting of empathy abandoned
His soul left in a shoebox, his heart sutured sewn sayonara

Bleeding after thirty he an’t be trusted
Encapsulated Capulet, entranced traitor
Sense of the commons, house whored away by ambition
He weeps, reaching for a sole bottle of Walker
Enmeshed engorged obliterated mirrored by the declivity
Corroding his bedside manner

He hopes his character will migrate to a milk carton
Lost in a cubicle farm, loved solely by cardboard
Cunctating coasting before the fllint struck forty

Then She entered. He didn’t ask for a save
Her etioliated skin sucked moonlight like second hand smoke
He asked her questions long short tricky
But her ghostly lips stayed crisp sounding invitations
Beckoning him to a graveyard of lust pulses
The Juliet abandoned held his dainty hand

[NOTE: Thankfully, at this point, it appears that I abandoned the poem, perhaps because of the ridiculous deus ex machina at the end.]

The Sticky Stigma of Poetry

The New Yorker‘s Dana Goodyear chats briefly with war poet Brian Turner. Turner was a one-time Army sergeant with an MFA, but he kept this secret amongst his PFCs because he didn’t want them to know that he was writing about “flowers and stuff like that.” While I certainly understand that a sergeant must keep his recruits disciplined, I still can’t understand why the writing poems and the appreciation of poetry is considered somehow to be flowery or a debilitating feminine trait, much less derided as a sissy’s labor.

Indeed, the notion of “poetry is for sissies” has a long stigma:

Javon Jackson: “I thought only brokenhearted girls and sissies wrote poems, but then she gave me works of other poets.”

Daniela Gioseffi: “There was this pressure, upon young men, to be baseball, football or track stars, and on the girls to be cheerleaders or baton twirling majorettes– and to feel like they were sissies, nerds or geeks if they cared about things like poetry.”

Jacques Prevert: “If I had a pound every time I heard someone say ‘I don’t like poetry’ I would not be writing this from the cold climes of Camden Town. Invariably, the same person sings along to the lyrics of pop songs apparently unaware that they constitute the stuff of poetry. Like me, such people were reared to believe poetry is for sissies.”

This notion is preposterous when one considers that, as Modern Poetry in Translation pointed out, in Turkey, men can write poetry without fearing being labeled a “sissy.” (The article goes into another fascinating issue: the lack of women poets in Turkey. And this does not discount the more serious problem of violence and enslavement of Turkish women. But I digress.) It is interesting to see that even within a nation that might be considered to be male-centric, poetry is considered to be neither particularly feminine nor particularly sissy-like.

So why the American stigma? Why does Turner continue to perpetuate the notion of poetry as “flowers and stuff like that” after he has left the Army?

I suspect that the problem runs much deeper, even among so-called champions of literature.

Academic Louie Crew wrote an essay where he noted that he got into trouble because he allowed one of his students to have a look at his colleagues’ personal libraries and the student noted that poetry books were severely lacking in the stacks. What was interesting is that, instead of trying to understand why poetry received no love from these academics, the head of Crew’s department attacked Crew, suggesting, “This kind of assignment undermines student trust of the faculty.” There were no efforts by the department to create poetry awareness, nor presumably any suggestions

Further, poetry has remained largely unmentioned on many of the litblogs (just some of the so-called alternative media outlets) you may read on a regular basis (to be fair, this blog has also been egregious on this score). When was the last time, for example, that you saw a poet mentioned at Maud’s, Jessa’s or Mark’s? And I’m not talking about mere news items (such as this helpful link about translated Korean poems from Mark), but the same long-form discussion and commentary we often see devoted to novels, the publishing industry, or Ayelet Waldman’s latest hysterical outburst. Why are there no lengthy posts about the Spenserian stanza? Or poetic metaphors? Or even the influence of alcohol on Dylan Thomas’s work?

What we have here is a problem goes well beyond exposing scandals. Outside of the hip venues of slam sessions that are doing a great job of keeping poetry alive, the poetry medium itself is still trapped in a secondary position, often subjected to silence among those who should be its champions. A poet is regarded less than a novelist. And that’s saying a lot, considering how little a novelist is regarded among your average Joe.

So what can we do to make Kenneth Koch as hep as Jonathan Lethem? Why aren’t poets given the kind of author tours afforded to midlisters? Who says poetry can’t sell?

Most importantly, what can we do to make poetry a medium that transcends gender and the fallacious association with so-called sissies?

Coy

A Marvell to behold the lust
Of men who coat their words as just
You think you’re lone in slapping pants
Or wishing more than just a dance?

Does slow and steady win the race?
The chariot’s wheels keep their pace
She’ll come, she’ll go, she’ll file divorce
My beachfront condo for a horse

For love is rough but faith rings true
The heart maintains with steady crew
The failure which you cling to hard
A bitter pill for such a bard

She won’t put out, so that’s the crux?
Come on, there’s more beyond this flux
Without warm body, there’s great lust
But if a void, why bluff your crust?

Response to the Shepherd (Four Centuries Too Late)

I’ll live with you and be your love
But countryside just won’t behoove
I’m urban, yo, I’ll need some grime
A dildo or your cock to climb

We’ll sit on rocks? I’m sure you jest
A settee please, it’s for the best
Hey nature boy, you’ll hear my words
Or are you lost among the birds?

The roses no, the choc’late yes
Or is your prize a slipshod guess
A kirtle? What? Have you read Elle?
Your swagger is just too darn swell

A gown? Well, where’s the swimsuit sir?
How fare the lambs who lose their fur?
If cold, I hope your heater works
Cause slippers aren’t the best of perks

The straw does scratch, the ivy too
Just grant a credit card from you
And then the pleasures we may prove
But chill with all these words of love

Roundup

  • Frances Dinkelspiel covers the Northern California Independent Booksellers Association.
  • This week, in the City, it’s Litquake. We’ll be crawling ourselves this Saturday, in more ways than one.
  • Word on the street is that the long-delayed Nobel Literature Prize will finally be announced this Thursday. Apparently, one of the Swedish intellectuals lost a few meatballs along the way. Knut Ahnlund gave notice that he was quitting in disgust over last year’s winner, Elfriede Jelinek. Ahnlund said that Jelinek’s work was “whinging, unenjoyable, violent pornography.” Well, that’s all very fine, Knut. But why wait a year to pull out? There’s still the risk of impregnating the proceedings with spurious seed. There’s been some speculation that Orhan Pamuk might be this year’s Nobel winner and that Ahnlund’s resignation has something to do with this year’s choice. But if my experience with self-important people serves as any guide, I’m guessing that Ahnlund wanted to sabotage this year’s proceedings by raising a stink and that the real winner will be someone completely unexpected. Let us hope that it’s as edgy a choice as Jelinek.
  • And speaking of awards, I’m not sure what to make of the Blooker. The Blooker hopes to award books that are based on blogs. But how many “blooks” are there? Certainly not enough to create a longlist. Further, are any of these really readable, much less enduring? More importantly, does Wil Wheaton really need another silly trinket?
  • Another day, another Dave E—- profile. His latest cause? Granting teachers more pay. While he’s at it, he may want to champion offering his volunteers some recompense. He’s also getting the little tykes to read every periodical in America, presumably to keep tabs on any naysayers. Child slave labor too? Why, in a parallel universe, Dave might very well be the literary equivalent of Phil Knight!
  • Four-Eyed Bitch wants to know why literary readings are so dull.
  • A new Internet radio station devoted to poetry has been launched by Brian Douthit.
  • Also worth looking into: Circadian Poems, a poetry blog.
  • Can pop culture be tracked in the 21st Century in book form? Encyclopedia of Pop Culture authors Michael and Jane Stern (among others) say no.
  • Literary critic Wayne C. Booth, author of The Rhetoric of Fiction, has passed on.

[UPDATE: The Complete Review has the full story on Knut “I Like My Literature Non-Pornographic” Ahnlund. Apparently, he’s not even a bona-fide Nobel judge and, whether he likes it or not, Ol’ Knut Basket Case won’t get his much vaunted reprieve until he meets his maker.]

No Second Scoop of Ice Cream for You!

It looks like things are gearing up in Alameda come November for the Alameda Book Fair. A few authors have been signed up, 826 Valencia is hosting “a workshop for youth (ages 14-19) who love to write, or want to,” and there’s even an “open mic poetry reading.” Unfortunately, the reading has set some ground rules for those hoping to push the envelope:

(one poem only, please, and keep it PG-13!)

I suppose perfervid (or perhaps we should say “perverted”) poets will have to unload their family-friendly 400-stanza cantos in order to fall within this threshold.

Speedy Gonzales Roundup

Personally, We Hear Little Voices Encouraging Us to Become an Insurance Adjuster

It was missed yesterday, but Today in Literatue celebrated the work of William McGonagall, who was, without a doubt, the Bulwer-Lytton of poetry. Here’s McGonagall on the collapse of the Tay Railway Bridge:

…Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.

If you’ve got a hankering for more, there’s McGonagall Online, which includes McGonagall recounting the first man who threw peas at him, as well as his complete autobiography, where he describes his inspiration: “I wondered what could be the matter with me, and I began to walk backwards and forwards in a great fit of excitement, saying to myself– ‘I know nothing about poetry.’ But still the voice kept ringing in my ears – ‘Write, write,’ until at last, being overcome with a desire to write poetry, I found paper, pen, and ink, and in a state of frenzy, sat me down to think what would be my first subject for a, poem.”

Out-Blog Blogging?

Milan Kundera’s in demand in Shanghai, enough to make him the best-selling foreign author in the city. Hybrid publishers are reported to be preparing Mao’s Little Red Book of Laughter and Forgetting.

Kate Christensen, whom Ron was kind enough to alert me to, is interviewed by the Journal News. From what I’ve been able to tell, the new book involves a man diagnosed with McDonald’s disease, but who is still obsessed with eating Happy Meals. If he doesn’t stop eating fatty foods, he’ll die a horrible, miserable and stunningly descriptive death at the age of 40. Nevertheless, the allure of the de Montaigne Happy Meal action figures is enough to keep the man eating. Christensen calls her new novel part of “Loser Lit,” which is not to be confused “Laser Lit,” a recent flurry of novels that have featured protagonists taking charge of their destinies shortly after undergoing corrective eye surgery.

Woody Allen and Joyce Carol Oates are among those named by the Tacoma Tribune as talents who are too prolific.

Viggo Mortensen recently showed up in town to read his poetry. Here’s a sample:

I walk the line that Nimoy wrought
I am not Spock or Aragorn
The fangirls swoon upon my locks
The fanboys EBay off my socks
The fans behold my brawny bod
With glasses on, I hide and trod

Who shot J.R.R.? I did, of course
As I was strutting on a horse
You think he died in ’71?
Well, the geezer croaked when I was done
A bullet there between his eyes
Killed at eleventy-zero, a big surprise

They kept the news from kith and gents
The fans had Tyler to cream their pants
But Peter knew, and so did I
And Tolkien’s death did make us cry
An accident, like Brendan Lee!
And so I hid up in a tree

Political correctness has kept George Washington’s name from being properly honored. And here I was thinking that it was just because today’s United States pays little heed to its foundations.

No sign yet of the Wolf-Bloom article yet at the New York website. Keep watching the skies. The Boston Globe, however, has a precis for those who can’t wait.

[UPDATE: Whoop, there it is.]

Yahoo wants to out-Google Google. Google has responded, indicating that they plan to “out-out-Yahoo Yahoo’s out-Googling Googling outside after out-Yahooing out-Google outsourcing.” Venn diagram enthusiasts are still trying to figure out just what the hell these two giants were talking about.

And Frederick Morgan, long-time editor for The Hudson Review, has passed on. He was 81.

J-Franz Gets a Phone-In

A new tell-all book on the Kennedys is coming out. But this time, it’s from the inside. The book is authored by Christopher Kennedy Lawford, and will include an essay by Ted Kennedy entitled “Mary Jo and Me: A Politiican’s Guide to Avoiding Entanglement.”

Shelsey Sybrandts, a 9 year old Coloradan, has become the youngest author of valentine verse. Harvey Winstein has optioned the eight-line poem for a future Miramax film, noting, “The little fucker’s a motherfucking genius. But if she tries to cross me, she better watch out. The fat man always wins.”

Ahmed Bouzfour won’t be taking home Morocco’s Literary Creation Prize. Bouzfour rejected the award, protesting Morocco’s low level of literacy. He also protested Morocco’s continuing promotion of the casbah dance.

In The Guardian, Richard Holmes examines Percy Shelley’s premature drowning.

Filmjerk uncovers an early draft of the Corrections film adaptation. David Hare wrote the script but, despite his solid credentials, to summarize their findings, the screenplay sucks. Big time.

prose-aic

xmas prop a gander did we vote?
ears calumniated by duplicitous speakers
silent sales sandwiched between stale scrambled

egg
nog
ick

unilateral steel toe lapping blood hard red green bow

spirit of giving
hungry

pint special sale medicine holed up
phone dead analog nosound
bathtub hot cold
alone at last

naturally

The Charge of the Fight Club Brigade

Half a tale, half a tale
Half a book onward,
All in the hackrooms of Death
Wrote Chuck six hundred
“Forward, the Fight Club Brigade!
“Charge for the books,” Chuck said:
Into the hackrooms of Death
Wrote Chuck six hundred

“Forward, the Fight Club Brigade!”
Was there a reader dismay’d?
Not tho’ the fanboy knew
Some Laura had blunder’d:
Hers not to fly a kite
Hers not to think or write,
Hers not to like one mite:
Into the hackrooms of death
Wrote Chuck six hundred.

Lullaby to right of them,
Survivor to left of them,
Choke in front of them,
Purchas’d and plunder’d,
Gorged through with rage and unschool’d,
Boldly they read and watched,
Into the jaws of Fincher,
Into the mouth of Chuck’s checking account
Wrote Chuck six hundred