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Posts Tagged ‘poetics’

These poets released their hearts on the world

The ones we knew and lost,

Those punk poets with ADHD and precious fits of anger,

The ones who tore down the murals on Pine Street

The ones who brought their stolen guitars

13 years old, playing music in the streets until dawn

When the police stole them from their sleeping bags

Handcuffing them into the backseat of their prowlers

The order of a blowjob or a night in jail

Those romantic poets whose hearts were young and full of anticipation

The ones not yet broken down by maryjane dreams in

The back seats of adult theatres

The quick cum meals swallowed fast and cheap for food money

The old men with their eyes closed never cared about a name

Those dying poets who were still so very alive and independent

So much more than you and I ever were

Not haunted by false iconic visions of future fatherly duty and the

Idiom of an autocratic family life without questions

Answers answers answers they never wanted and we never knew

Those spoken word poets who sold their souls on the interstate

Spouting their gospels out loud in honkytonks

From Nashville to Memphis

Living in the back seat of a 55 Ford

The Guardians of Race beating them in fits of fear and hate

Those crazed poets who raced down the riverbanks without shoes

Hair flying in the breeze, eyes bulging out of their skulls

Blanked out on crack screaming at the universe about

Eternal damnation and all the

Virgins they’d never live to fuck

Those anaemic Goth poets who couldn’t get out of bed before 6pm

Puking in the hallway, blood surrounding the toilets

Building supervisors looking the other way in disgust but

Knowing they’d pay their rent at the end of the month

When they dropped their jeans

Those interstellar poets who flew to Europe with daddies’ money

The ones who blew it all in a casino without windows

Losing it on broken promises and

A thousand and one forgotten explanations

Those intellectual poets who fell to their knees in philosophical orgasms

Espousing a faith to the almighty Kafka. Trotsky or Camus in

Coffeehouses filled with clove smoke thick as lies

Clueless fools awaiting verbal ejaculations

Still debating just what the fuck they meant

 

Does it fucking matter at all?

 

These poets released their hearts on the world

The ones no one knew

Those hipster poets their pockets filled with Hegel

The ones who argued that life is a fucked up poem of its own

“Ecstasy is the natural form of live” tattooed across their foreheads as they killed themselves

In taxis sneaking their poems out of East Berlin in the 1970s

The last stanzas of the Internationale and top secret words,

Words of revolution slipping out of their consciousness.

Those fashionista poets with the berets,

Dizzy and Bird and Mingus, oh bop kabala, oh piano riffs of Monk

Twisting the head around until it falls into the Hudson

Only to be born again in these lines

.

I too want to be born again in these lines. Oh holy oh holy

Oh Mother of Invention and Creationism dead and dying.

Lying in a supermarket aisle with the scars of unfaithful husbands

Cocks swallowed whole in hasty retreats

Notes in pockets of winter coats left behind hastily and forever regretted

Let me cum on your breasts.

Let me fill your vessels in three quarter time.

Frantic frantic these words cannot give me peace that’s not their intent

These are the poets’ cries, the ones no one hears

Bulldozers running 24/7, poetic cities of metal built and rebuilt on the same stones

Stoned poets running in the Bowery,

Running in Harlem,

Running in Seattle and San Francisco bath houses

Running from gin joint to bop united strip joints to gay bars with big screen tvs

Blasting Eurovision and Berlusconis porn for the masses, but I digress

 

These poets released their hearts on the world

Those shy poets tripping over cobblestones in 60s Stockholm coffeehouses

Out of focus permanently in every night daydreams of a better world

Daydreams daydreams life is but a daydream

Palmes murder ended a countries’ dream but now it’s all life as you want it

If you want it here it is come and get it

Swim from the city to the archipelago drown in the icy water all alone

Your poetic dreams washed up on shores of fascist nations

Those awkward poets hiding in the public library salons built like hospital wards

Leaving notes in Martian, this I’ve seen, that no one can decipher on the large tables while flashing gorgeous legs to the staff

Security guards keeping a vulture close watch on their every curve

Rhymes from ancient poets calling, pushing their insanity further and further

Their poems lost for all time with a jolt of electricity or the push of a needle.

Those poets who burned themselves with ink and notes and bong hits to Mars

Screeching their poems across the Reed College radio wavelengths

To scholastic pulpits with drug infested dirges raining down on their      consciousness

Until Eric has to scream “No more, No more” across the rooftops of hell

Campus security hoping he takes the leap

His poetry left behind on the stones of campus forever like a scar to the truth.

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This is more of what I suspect will be my version of Leaves Of Grass in that it may never come to a final version,, I’m very open to critique and suggestion on this.. Hope you like it!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Does Poetry Have a Social Function? I found these superb essays on the function of poetry on the poetry foundation website, a must for anyone who writes or reads poetry. What are the responsibilities of poets on the social scene, How does a poem affect our world, our lives. An excellent read!!

Source: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/article/178919

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True there is no “I” in poetry
But there is heart.
There are souls
From time immemorial
With secrets yet to share,
Seductions to be finished
And tears yet to shed.

All of our souls and dreams,
Our entire collective unconscious
Drawn like beads on a tight string
Along the necklace of words.

There is Handsome Johnny and Joe Hill
All those heroes who never died,
All those who never survived
All those we never knew

There are cars we never drove,
Flights we never took
Oceans we never swam in

All the faces we never met and
There is You, and all the girls
On the corner under the streetlight
Watching all the boys
And the parents stressed beyond measure,

There are roses and a
Kiss for when the thorns prick,
And there is then
And there is now
And what if,
What, why, when, where,  who
And again, there is You
And there is us
And there is I,
So maybe there is an “I” in poetry after all.

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Source: Where Have They Gone, poem 2

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Ahhhh,, Allen G. It’s hard to think of a poet who had a bigger influence on me than you. Ezra, yes, tiger cage or not, Kenneth Rexroth and Kenneth Patchen both have opened my eyes to the beauty of taking on a social cause and of love, as has Neruda.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, “
 
I was one of those angel headed hipsters, I was one of the frustrated youth, busted without a reason, inclined towards the inevitable decline, ousted with nowhere to go and no way back in, climbing a ladder that I didn’t know didn’t exist, where are the fucking steps? Where am I going? Following a hollow leader, leading nowhere but up and ending up nowhere but down, tearing my clothes in a flagellants rage, whipping my back with all the insipid uninspired rules of the military, the crucifix burnt into my skull, he is risen he is risen, Dylan, no, not Thomas, Bobby, no not Kennedy, a poet for no one but words for all, stuck in my throat, gagging  like a cock at an orgy, a hero running the streets at dawn, now, here in Stockholm luring me into a storm of calmness, denying me my rage until i couldn’t hold it anymore shooting it out into the worlds great gloryhole, with no one on the receiving end,
 
Well, I digress. Allen was simply one of the great minds of our, or any, generation. It is a pleasure to read and share his work. I’ve been planning on writing something for my 60th birthday a few weeks ago and I still hope to do that soon. It would be massively incomplete if it didn’t include this magnificent fountain, this famously censored HOWL.

 

Howl by Allen Ginsberg : The Poetry Foundation.

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