One of My Favorite Poems
Mad Girl’s Love Song by Sylvia Plath
“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”
Book Review: Voice of the Wind-Poems by TSM
“The silent howl it gives, You think it is just a breeze, You ignore the wind” – TSM
Voice of the Wind is by a mysterious poet who goes by the name of TSM. His collection of poetry reflects on various themes like life, emotions, secrets, passion, love, and nature.
After the intro, Voice of the Wind into several sections The Listening, The Telling, The Poetry, and The Dialogue.
“I have never seen/So many colors/In one place/You are a living canvas/Such artistry”
“There is something/About her/That isn’t/Like the others/She is poetry”
“I don’t know how she does it/But she can hold even the sun/In her hands”
“The freckles/On her skin/Are like starlights/In the night/Those glitters/Must have been/Poured there by God”
“I believe that anyone who has been/Blessed with the gift of language/ Has been/Blessed with the gift of poetry/Either to read, write or recite/No gift is greater than the other.
Voice of the Wind can be read from beginning to end or in piecemeal. Everyone who reads Voice of the Wind Will likely connection with these poems. TSM’s poetry is thought-provoking and heartfelt. Voice of the Rain is a great way to celebrate National Poetry Month.
Incandescent Visions by Lee Hudspeth
To call Lee Hudspeth a renaissance man is an understatement. He is an accomplished writer, musician, publisher, tech guru, and so much more. Now Hudspeth can add poet to his list of accomplishments with his first book of poetry Incandescent Visions.
I have to admit I used to be hesitant about poetry. Perhaps because it’s not a writing genre I’m used to. I usually read novels, short stories, and works of non-fiction. But poetry is something I’m more drawn to these days, which is why I’m happy to review Hudspeth’s work.
Hudspeth is a man very curious about creativity and how it inspires himself and others. And he is someone who finds creativity in all that surrounds him, which is reflected in Incandescent Visions.
Incandescent Visions is divided into several distinct chapters reflecting upon the human condition seen from Hudspeth’s individualistic mindset.
In the first chapter called “Dear Reader, Hello,” Hudspeth introduces himself and welcomes us to his world of travel.
In chapter two, “Reflections,” Hudspeth muses about the different experiences we go through as we traverse from childhood to being an adult (and all the thorny ages in between).
In the third chapter called “It’s Getting Dark in Here,” Hudspeth’s poetry reflects on our agonizing days of fear and uncertainty. Though very personal, these poems pierce the heart with their timeliness.
Chapter four is about “Motion.” The poems focus on how we move in the world going in different directions and the landscapes we observe.
In the fifth chapter Hudspeth encourages us to have a “Celebration.” We must look for the good things in life that elevate our spirits.
Incandescent Visions ends in an afterward in which Hudspeth provides more details on what inspired him to write these poems.
I found Hudspeth’s poetry to be nostalgic and heartfelt. They show depth without being pretentious. His writing voice is very visual whether he writes an ode to his late mother or says farewell to Italy. I enjoyed both his free verse and haikus. But it was the last stanza in the poem “Where Before There Were Incandescent Visions” that truly lifted my spirits.
“Tear it all down/Undo the damage done/Restart the core/Rekindle the light and heat/That is you”
The perfect words in an imperfect time.
Book Review: Seduction-New Poems, 2013-2018 by Quincy Troupe
For the most part, I’m a pretty fearless reader. I’m open to all kinds of genres.
But when it comes to poetry, I’m a total ‘fraidy cat.
Oh, sure, as a child I loved the playful poems of Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein. And once I became an adult, I embraced the poetry of Dorothy Parker, Maya Angelou, and Sylvia Plath. I also fully realize the lyrics of my favorite songs are poetry.
But unfortunately I ignore poetry when it comes to reading. I’m too intimidated, thinking I won’t get it or the poems will go over my head.
Well, no more. It’s time to stop being a baby and start reading poetry. And I am happy I did because poetry has opened a new world to me thanks to Quincy’s book Seduction: New Poems, 2013-2018.
Mr. Troupe has written nine books of poetry and he’s also an author and screenwriter.
Seduction is a slim volume divided into three parts consisting of poems that speak of topics like race, love, sex, culture, black icons, societal issues, and the human condition as whole.
Some of Troupe’s poems are short, several are quite lengthy, almost like short stories. Some of these longer poems are broken into chapters, which is something I had never seen until I read Troupe’s work.
As for his shorter poems? Well, Troupe’s poetry convey more than 500 page novels.
Troupe is both a challenging and visionary writer, with a game changing use of the English language. One way Troupe does this is replacing “I” with “Eye. ” He also has creative and descriptive style of writing. I could actually visualize his poems in my mind’s eye.
I’m thrilled I chose to read Troupe’s book Seduction. It has definitely lessened my fear of poetry and has seduced me to read more.
Book Review: The Little Red Book of Poe-ee-tree-Words from the Heart edited by Mrs. Fields
Note: Over 10 years ago I reviewed this book for a U2 fansite. In honor of Poetry month, I decided to dust it off, make a few revisions, and publish it here at The Book Self.
U2 fans are not your typical rock and roll fans. Sure, they buy the CDs, download their music, and go to the concerts, but being a U2 fan is so much more than that. U2 fans are motivated. They are inspired to open their minds, learn new things, and get involved in causes bigger than themselves. However, they are also inspired to use own creativity. This is evident in a slim, yet powerful book of poetry and short stories called The Little Red Book of Poet-ee-tree: Words from the Heart.
The Little Red Book of Poe-ee-tree is a volume containing heartfelt prose by a collection of U2 fans throughout the globe. Their love of U2’s music and the written word lead these fans to The Heart. The Heart was an Internet poetry forum where writers cultivated their writing skills, shared their work with others, and got their creative juices flowing. Sadly, it shut down in 2003, but fortunately for the Heart community, U2 fans, and lovers of good writing, the works created for the Heart are not lost forever. They are compiled into The Little Red Book of Poe-ee-tree.
All the royalties of The Little Red Book of Poe-ee-tree went to the African Well Fund, a charity founded in 2002 by a group of U2 fans to provide a clean water sources to many African communities. The African Well Fund has built and supplied clean water and sanitation projects in Uganda, Angola and Zimbabwe. The Little Red Book of Poe-ee-tree was just one part of the African Well Fund’s comprehensive vision to help others.
The poets published in The Little Red Book of Poe-ee-tree write about love and loss, heartbreak and joy. They write with clear-eyed optimism and downcast despair. These poems take us on a journey of both the writers’ hearts and souls, and our individual interpretations to their work. Some poems a mere few lines, whereas others nearly tell a story.
Jennifer’s startling “Modern Day Warfare” uses the frightening images of mustard-gas lies and biological-warfare thoughts, along with rat-ta-tat fists to chillingly describe abuse both emotional and physical.
Kel, in the poem “Africa” describes the continent as a living, breathing human female, inhaling her warm earthy air. This poem puts a very personal face on one’s personal journey throughout the African landscape.
Mrs. F. conveys the love a mother has for her children in the poem “Earth and Angels.” Phrases like “He darts in dizzy zig zags…Listens wide-eyed, hoots at the owl” and “Head filled with fairies and music…She skips and sings” give us an intimate look at the special qualities that make our sons and daughters so special to us.
All the poems, whether short or lengthy, are very strong, and open to many interpretations. I don’t know how these poets came to their words. Sometimes a poem just comes to someone and easily flows out onto paper. Sometimes constructing a poem is like throwing a bunch of words into the air, and then constructing a poem using the scattered words. However the poems came to be in this book, they came through what Allen Ginsberg once called, “ordinary magic.”
Several short stories are also collected in The Little Red Book of Poe-ee-tree. When writing a short story, writers also face challenges. Writers need to grab the reader and tell a complete story in a short amount of words. And these stories have to be engaging, draw the reader in, and achieve a believable conclusion without seeming to be tacked on in haste.
This is expertly done in Laurie CK’s “Pennycake.” In this story, carefree memories of a 1970’s childhood are recalled with its birthday rituals and lazy summer days. The brief mentions of Noxzema, Keith Partridge, and 8-Track tapes give the reader a strong idea of a certain place in time. This story also evokes what it is like to be a child facing real life unexpected grief and a subsequent loss of faith.
The one quibble I do have with this book (and it is a minor one) is the limited amount of writers. I don’t know if this is because only a few writers were accepted or only a few writers chose to submit their work. This could also be because the Heart was a small group to begin with. If anything this book begs for a sequel.
We Interrupt This Blog for This Special and Important Announcement!
According to Sheryl Dee, her book Rhythm and the Body Electric is contemporary romantic fiction that is as turns dark, funny and quite erotic. It follows a woman’s journey to life that fulfills her both emotionally and creatively even though she has to deal with several personal obstacles along the way. Interspersed throughout Rhythm and the Body Electric is Dee’s provocative and sensual poetry.
Speak in Short Words
Speak in short words, each breath stolen from the divine.
Slip the grip of time.
Slay beastly doubts with dazzling strokes.
Open your throat. Eat your foe.
Burn, build or braid a way.
Heal with hands, hymns and heat.
Give more than you get.
Sing a unified theory in ten lines or less.
Each day, chase genius. Find grace.
The following is a brief synopsis of Rhythm and the Body Electric provided by the author:
“Virginia’s got her sexy, silly groove back and is ready to rock the world, but will love, lust and dangerous desire kill the music?
Environmental engineer Virginia “V.” Will, the youngest in a protective, Southern family, has played it safe for years. The death of her adventurous mother is a wake-up call. At age 39, V. leaves her job and joins the D.C. band Love Bunny as a drummer, but she wants more than just a drum throne and a voyeur’s view of the wild parties of her twenty-something bandmates. Just when she thinks her family was wrong about the dangers of the nightlife, she starts feeling very out of sorts at a band party. And did she just hallucinate her favorite actor Jack Leeds? Not good.
Jack Leeds knows how to blend into the background to enjoy a beautiful talent. He sees V. at a Love Bunny show. He must have her. He plans to approach V. at a listening party, where her odd behavior interrupts his kinky preoccupations. Can he keep her safe and protect his TV career and his heart?
Hot sex, soulful art, empowerment, obsession and violent secrets give the lust and love story of Jack and V. its own seductive rhythm, now accentuated with layered, provocative and lyrical pieces from the author (me), an award-winning poet.
Fans of BWWM romance, leading ladies with a sense of humor, power exchange, poetry, erotica and nerds getting love will have a blast dancing to the beat of Jack and V.”
Ms. Dee was also kind enough to provide a glimpse of Rhythm and the Body Electric through the first chapter:
Chapter 1 Bold Bunny Beat
Rumble and caress cohere. As the beat fades, sorrow and hope wash over me in waves.
Gavin tips his pork pie hat and says, “And that, my friends, is yet another reason we’re so lucky to have our V. Show some love for her.”
Scattered across the crowd, my friends clap and hoot. The love on their faces lifts me.
Gavin introduces the fans’ favorite Love Bunny song. The energy elevates. I scan the den for my college pal until Zander the DJ blocks my view.
“Yo, great remix, V.,” Zander says. “Let’s toast to drummers getting some love tonight.”
This drummer already has. And she doesn’t plan to share it with a disconcerting DJ.
No, no. Let me be gracious. This night’s been amazing. I can at least be civil.
I smile at Zander. His goatee’s darker and his blonde hair’s lighter than I recall. He hands me an open bottle of ale from my favorite local brewer. I take in a big mouthful and am surprised at its sweetness. I check the label. Summer blend at a fall soiree, no biggee. I swallow.
“Hey girl, about that song,” Zander says in his incongruously deep voice.
I talk with Zander for minutes. He drones on about his approach to production.
“I wish this rapper I heard would get that.”
“He probably does,” he says.
“She has cool flow. Her empowerment message is amazing. Her tracks are just too thin.”
“Maybe I should holler at her, professionally,” he says.
“You should try. She’s D.C. born and raised.”
“Local. Cool. We could get that chedda,” he says.
“OK, but she’s about something. She won a grant for social entrepreneurship.”
“Does she keep it real?” he says. “I can’t stand fake shit.”
“She’s as real as gentrification.”
Gavin announces the last two songs before I can tell Zander the rapper’s name. Maybe that’s a good break for her.
The choice of the manager plays. The crowd claps. The new song unfurls. It ends to loud applause. My heartbeat thumps like a scared rabbit. I wonder if the excitement’s gotten to me.
I see my friends out, trying not to let on at my dizziness. I wait in line for the bathroom. I wash my face with cool water to little lasting effect.
I spot Pei. I doubt I can cross the dining room without stumbling.
“Pei, I better head out.”
“Girl, ya had a few too many. Ya better sit down before ya fall down,” Pei says.
“I didn’t finish a drink, not one.”
“I gotta schmooze,” Pei says as she tucks a lock of blue hair behind her ear. “I’ll get Zander to set ya up with some chips and a quiet spot upstairs ‘til we drive ya home.”
I fight to control my bottom lip. It feels stretchy.
I hate being drunk. I’d only had half the ale. Is low tolerance another vagary of aging?
The dining room’s tilting. I may’ve been drugged. I should be incensed. Am I floating?
Zander guides me up tricky stairs. I wobble by a guy who looks like my favorite fantasy lover, Jackson Leeds. Same strong jaw and soul-stirring eyes.
I must be hallucinating. I’m definitely unwinding. Here’s hoping all my trips are as lovely as Jackson.
Book Info
Author: Sheryl Dee
Page Count: 200 (more with the poems)
Word Count: 50,000
Amazon
Twitter
LinkedIn
Author Bio:
Sheryl Dee is a writer, drummer, researcher, voice over artist and more. She studied creative writing at UNC Chapel Hill and took Poetry for the People at UC Berkeley. She won the first Pearl Street Publishing author fellowship and a Gemini Magazine poetry contest. 513 206 0278
Book Club: My Musings on Poetry
“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” ― Leonard Cohen
What does poetry mean to you?
When I was a little girl and read the books of Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein, I thought all poetry had to rhyme. My idea of poetry was quite simplistic.
As I got older, my ideas of poetry advanced. I learned poetry didn’t have to rhyme. In fact, it often didn’t. I also learned of various styles of poetry—sonnets, haiku, limericks—to name a few. So for a while I thought of poetry was a writing format with a lot of rules and regulations and something a wee bit pretentious.
However, a few years ago I covered a slam poetry event for high school students sponsored by Still Waters Collective, an organization that mentors talented young writers and speakers. This event blew me away, and reminded me that poetry could be whatever you wanted it to be and wasn’t pretentious at all.
“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.” – Robert Frost
Who are your favorite poets and why? Name some of you favorite poems and why?
Well, I mentioned Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein, but I also got to give a shout out to three ladies whose appreciate like Maya Angelou, whose classic “Phenomenal Woman” never fails to lift my spirits.
Phenomenal Woman
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Huffington Post has nine other inspirational poems written by Ms. Angelou I also love.
Then there is Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl’s Love song really speaks to me when it comes to love and desire.
Mad Girl’s Love Song
“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”
I often wonder what else Ms. Plath could have written if she hadn’t met such a tragic demise.
And then there is my love for Dorothy Parker, the patron saint of all witty women too smart for their own good.
“A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.” ― W.H. Auden
Have you ever written poetry? Why or why not? (You can share your original poetry if you want to)
Back in the 1990s, as I inched my way back into the world of writing, I participated in a local poetry writers group. Though I wasn’t in it for a very long time, it did get the writing juices flowing. I didn’t think of myself as a poet, especially compared to my fellow writers, and I turn my talents to non-fiction writer working as a copywriter, research writer, freelance journalist, publicist and editor professionally, personally and academically.
Interestingly enough, I found some of the poems I wrote while in this group and was pleasantly surprised that a good deal of it wasn’t as cringe worthy as I thought. Sure, some of it was pretty damn good.
And last month I attended a poetry workshop at my friends Nora and Elaine’s Buddhist temple in Chicago. I was at first hesitant to participate because of my lack of experience writing poetry. I thought maybe I could just sit back and observe. No dice. I actually had to write something, which I did and I had so much fun and learned so much, not just from the teacher but from my fellow students, too. Everyone’s poem weaved such eloquent and creative tapestries of words. I felt humbled to be around such rich talent.
Now I don’t envision myself a poet but this class (and the discovery of some of my old poetry), once again challenged me as a writer and inspired me in ways that go beyond the written word.
“There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it.” ― Gustave Flaubert
Anything else you would like to add?
It’s funny; ever since I asked people to give me their thoughts on and experiences with poetry, I am starting to see poetry beyond actual poems. I see poetry in music, words I read in various books, dialogue in both movies and TV shows, various quotes, and just from everyday conversation. I see poetry in visual art and innovative crafts. I see poetry through fashion and style. I also see poetry in my love of food when I read my cookbooks or discover a new recipe or make a meal. I’m finding poetry in the natural world around me, whether it’s the blooms of lilac bushes, Lake Michigan, the twittering of birds when I wake up in the morning, or a glorious sunset as I end my day. I see poetry in the physical world of dance, yoga, and athletics. I find poetry in prayer, meditation and just simple silent contemplation. I guess I just find poetry in living life!
“I think that were beginning to remember that the first poets didn’t come out of a classroom, that poetry began when somebody walked off of a savanna or out of a cave and looked up at the sky with wonder and said, ‘Ahhh.'” That was the first poem. – Lucille Clifton
Book Review: A Boy Named Shel by Lisa Rogak
As a child I adored Shel Silverstein’s books, The Giving Tree and Where the Sidewalk Ends, among others having a special place in my heart. In fact, I think I treasure them now more than I did when I was a little girl. I always had an inkling Silverstein did more than write children’s books and my inkling proved true when I read Lisa Rogak’s biography A Boy Named Shel.
To call Silverstein a Renaissance man is putting it mildly. Not only was he a prolific children’s author, he was also a cartoonist, singer/songwriter, screenwriter and playwright. He also led a rather interesting personal life.
Born to a Jewish family and raised in Chicago, Silverstein attended Chicago School of the Fine Arts but was soon drafted into the Army. While in the Army Silverstein began to draw cartoons and later, once he returned to Chicago, he drew and published cartoons for several magazines.
But it is after he began to get his cartoons in Playboy when Silverstein’s multi-layered career really began to shine and lead to greater success. He also began to write songs, mostly of a folk variety and formed his own folk group. But one of his most famous songs is the country/novelty song “A Boy Named Sue,” which became a huge hit for the late Johnny Cash. Silverstein’s songs were also sung by Judy Collins, Dr. Hook, Marianne Faithfull and Emmylou Harris. Silverstein co-wrote many songs with Kris Kristofferson and Waylon Jennings, both remained lifelong friends with Silverstein.
Silverstein also wrote a great deal of scripts for the stage, film and television at times co-writing scripts with others, including David Mamet. One of the most popular television programs Silverstein wrote for is the Generation X classic “Free to Be…You and Me.”
Professional success led to personal success, especially when it came to the ladies. To put it bluntly, Silverstein was a playa, and many of his experiences as a playa were due not only to his success, but to him hanging out a great deal at the Playboy Mansion. Despite being a bit of a man ho, many of his carnal conquests remember him fondly for when he was with a woman he really made her feel special and he was often honest with them, claiming he was not the type to settle down.
Still, Silverstein did have children, a daughter and a son, and though he loved them he wasn’t exactly the ideal father. And as I read A Boy Named Shel, I learned as much as Silverstein was revered by the children who read his books, his relationship with children (both is own and those of his friends) could be described as complicated.
In fact, complicated pretty much sums up Silverstein as a human being and a creative individual. At times he was a total bon vivant, the life of the party. At times, he was very reticent and private. He was meticulous when it came to his writing and drawing, but often dressed like a homeless person. When it came to his children he experienced both tragedy and triumph. He could be both kind and cruel.
And other tidbits I learned about Silverstein included eschewing driving after being in a bad car accident. He was nominated for an Oscar. He wrote travelogues and was quite the globetrotter. And he lived all over the country.
All of this living in one life should have made A Boy Named Shel a scintillating read; but as I kept reading this book, especially as I neared the end, I found myself bored. Rogak writing style is dull and lacks a certain punch that keeps you wanting to learn more and more. She is way too repetitive and dry, which I soon found rather insulting to Silverstein’s legendary legacy and his output as a truly original artist that entertained audiences for decades and continues to entertain nearly twenty years after Silverstein’s death. Perhaps, this book would have served better as an article. In the end I just mourned that Silverstein never wrote his own memoir. Now that would have been a book.
Still, I am grateful I learned more about Shel Silverstein. I will never stop loving those children’s books that delighted me as a bookish little girl, and am now inspired by Silverstein’s creative output to sharpen myself as a Renaissance woman. Perhaps, if you read A Boy Named Shel and connect with his work
, you, too will feel inspired.
Book Club: Poetry
Several weeks ago I came up with a new idea for this blog I call Book Club. Book Club is where I ask my readers and friends their opinions when it comes to books, writing, authors, and writing. Because April is National Poetry Month I asked a few of my friends to answer a few questions regarding poetry. Here are the initial questions I asked:
- What does poetry mean to you?
- Who are your favorite poets and why? Name some of you favorite poems and why? (Links or copies of these poems would be greatly appreciated)
- Have you ever written poetry? Why or why not? (You can share your original poetry if you want to)
- Anything else you would like to add?
The first to answer are my friends Nora and Tari, and here are their very interesting answers in their very own words (nothing edited by me).
NORA
- What does poetry mean to you?
Poetry is very meaningful to me. It is where all the wordsmiths come together to shine. It is like the “Auto Show of Literature.” I call it the Auto Show because basically, you see cars every day, ordinary cars, rusty cars, different brands, these cars are not extraordinary, just useful and functional. Then you get invited to the “Auto Show”… and the cars there are shiny, luxurious, top- of- the-line in design and function, futuristic, out-of-worldly, gorgeous colors, every detail is amazing and breathtaking! That is how I view poetry … amazing and breathtaking.
- Who are your favorite poets and why? Name some of your favorite poems and why? (Links or copies of these poems would be greatly appreciated)
What I like about most poetry and poets is that there is a very human and urgent need to use words to describe universal feelings and expressions. Poets are usually ordinary folks who take an extraordinary “look” at what everyone knows and wants. That’s why the meaning of most poems doesn’t feel dated.
Some of my favorite poets are:
Charles Bukowski: If you ever wanted to feel “cool” and bask in the sun of “loser-dom” without actually living the pain, Bukowski is your man. He puts you right there and you see the details of the life of the loner, the drunk, the misfit, the bored, the angry, the sad, and you love his poems for the accuracy and you kinda hate and despise him too. He’s disgusting to you, but you are grateful to him because you get to live through him without gettingyour hands dirty. He creates a small beauty in all of his muck.
Here is Bukowski’s poem about his daughter. It’s called, “Marina.”
Marina
************
majestic, magic
infinite
my little girl is
sun
on the carpet –
out the door
picking a flower, ha!,
an old man,
battle-wrecked,
emerges from his
chair
and she looks at me
but only sees
love,
ha!, and I become
quick with the world
and love right back,
just like I was meant
to do.
Bobby Sands: (Irish Republican soldier who died in 1981 from hunger in jail after 66 days of starving. He was protesting against the oppressive British forces who refused to recognize him as a political prisoner, instead of a common criminal).
Bobby Sands is a total romantic character for me. I used to read his writing when I was a younger girl. I didn’t really know the particulars or could personally relate to the circumstances of his plight as an IRA soldier, but I could definitely relate to his feelings of being oppressed and confined and written off. Plus, his need to express himself forced him, in his prison cell, to write on little bits of toilet paper with a pen that he had to hide in one of his personal body cavities. That is a strong statement on the human need to be heard and what a person would do in order to be heard!
Here is one of my favorite poems of his called “Modern Times”:
It is said we live in modern times,
In the civilized year of ‘seventy-nine,
But when I look around, all I see,
Is modern torture, pain, and hypocrisy.
In modern times little children die,
They starve to death, but who dares ask why?
And little girls without attire,
Run screaming, napalmed, through the night alive.
And while fat dictators sit upon their thrones,
Young children bury their parents’ bones,
And secret police in the dead of night,
Electrocute the naked woman out of sight.
In the gutter lies the black man, dead,
And where the oil flows blackest, the street runs red,
And there was He who was born and came to be,
But lived and died without liberty.
As the bureaucrats, speculators and presidents alike,
Pin on their dirty, stinking, happy smiles tonight,
The lonely prisoner will cry out from within his tomb,
And tomorrow’s wretch will leave its mother’s womb!
- Have you ever written poetry? Why or why not? (You can share your original poetry if you want to)
Only recently have I tried to write poetry, so it is a brand new skill for me. I think it never occurred to me to write it before was because of the way it was taught to me as a young student. I got the impression that poetry could only be written by people who were real writers or English majors, people who were scholarly and knew all the meters and rules of poetry. And all the poems we read were about love and they rhymed and used Old English or vocabulary that I couldn’t relate to or wrap my mind around. Poetry felt like calligraphy to me, beautiful to look at, but not necessarily useful for us common folks. Poetry was for those who wanted to impress, not express.
The lack of connection to Poetry pushed me towards the “song.” Song lyrics became more interesting and relevant to me and they were easier to understand. But lately, since songs to me these days involve instrumentation, musical genres and styles, more about persona and marketing, all this complicates the direct communication of words to ears to meaning. So with the modern day love of rap music and rappers are becoming modern day wordsmiths, the poem is making a comeback. Today’s poems have to be impactful, though, pointed, and most of all, socially conscious and reflect part of their listeners’ lives. Today’s poetry readers have to feel like the poet existed in their minds and said it in the way that they would have said it.
TARI
1) Poetry doesn’t seem to have rules. A poet can evoke any emotion by the fewest words, or the most. Poems are valuable to us in that we don’t necessarily need to understand them to ‘get’ them. They are visceral. Poetry is deeply personal, and can be a full-on attack, or a salve, or anything in-between. Poetry speaks to our singular life experiences, and opens our eyes to other’s. It can be brutally soul-baring, and it can be beautiful, all in the same poem.
2) Charles Bukowski and Emily Dickinson. One is raw like an open wound, the other is genteel, cultured. Both are brilliant, both are honest.
3) I don’t have a favorite from Bukowski. I’m electrified, repulsed, enlightened in some way by most of his work. Emily D never really liked titles, so people gave her poems numbers and used the first line as the title. Poem 314: Hope is the Thing With Feathers is by far my favorite. It’s inspirational and full of that very thing. Hope.
4) I have. Let’s just say I won’t make the mistake of thinking I could maybe ever do that again. So bad.
5) I hold poets, I mean really good poets, in the highest esteem. I believe their ability to cast a naked, unjaded eye and lay bare artifice is unparalleled. I wish I had the ability to turn a phrase like they do, to bend words to their will. As a fiction writer, I use words… poets conduct them.Their social commentary can be, and often is, invaluable and necessary, and it is always deeply rooted in humanity and human emotion, from whatever side they approach. I envy them, even as I celebrate them. I wish I could be them.
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