PoemoftheWeek

[michela]

I ha ve to say iì'm defenetely agree with Scheherazade,i don't mind raw in poetry 'cause writing has to be different from speaking you know i mean? Anyway i know this is just my opinion and that Bukoswski was a good journalist but being honnest i don't like him.

[Virgil]

I went and checked out his poetry on the web. I don't like him either. Not only is it distasteful, but it's poor. Sorry if I offended anyone. Lawrence Ferlingetti can be distasteful at times, but he's an average or so poet. I didn't feel like Burkoski was even average.

[Riesa]

I went and checked out his poetry on the web. I don't like him either. Not only is it distasteful, but it's poor. Sorry if I offended anyone. Lawrence Ferlingetti can be distasteful at times, but he's an average or so poet. I didn't feel like Burkoski was even average.

I think to fully appreciate him, you need to have an affinity for the underworld. There is, to some, something darkly romantic about the lost alcoholic poet. I, for one, can find the tragedy and the humour in him. Bukowski is kind of like Tom Waits' music to me. I love T.W., but he can be disturbing, and in general people either love him or hate him. and if these posts represent how people feel about Bukowski, one either loves him or hates him, too. But enough about him.

A new poem:

Lying in a Hammock
at William Duffy's Farm
in Pine Island, Minnesota
by James Wright

Over my head, I see the Bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

[Riesa]

oops, I just realized that this is the WEEKLY poem thread, sorry. go back to discussing, THE LABORATORY by: Robert Browning. Pretend I wasn't here.

[Virgil]

I think to fully appreciate him, you need to have an affinity for the underworld. There is, to some, something darkly romantic about the lost alcoholic poet. I, for one, can find the tragedy and the humour in him.

It's not that he's disturbing that makes him a poor poet to me. He may be darkly romantic. I've known lots of people who might be called darkly romantic. That didn't make them poets. It's his use of language that makes unpoetic to me. It doesn't strike me as being very artful.

[Riesa]

It's his use of language that makes him poetic to me, though. I guess it comes down to individual feeling and interpretation of his poetry. To each his own

[Virgil]

I think the week has passed and we can tackle Reisa's poem.

I think to fully appreciate him, you need to have an affinity for the underworld. There is, to some, something darkly romantic about the lost alcoholic poet. I, for one, can find the tragedy and the humour in him. Bukowski is kind of like Tom Waits' music to me. I love T.W., but he can be disturbing, and in general people either love him or hate him. and if these posts represent how people feel about Bukowski, one either loves him or hates him, too. But enough about him.

A new poem:

Lying in a Hammock
at William Duffy's Farm
in Pine Island, Minnesota
by James Wright

Over my head, I see the Bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

Fine poem, Reisa. The capture of just the perfect moment. One question: how do one year old horse's droppings "blaze"? And why "golden stones"?

[rachel]

Virgil,
have you never gone riding and see old droppings on a sunny day. if old they really can shine a strange brown shot thru with gold and when a ray of sunshine strikes across them they do "blaze". for real.
And as far as Bukowski, he did say he wrote to save himself from madness. He never said he was any good!
Browning's poem is very chilling. It glaringly shows what happens when grief or shock is not dealt with quickly in a positive way. to forgive takes an act of the will not any emotions per se and without forgiveness the heart darkens and becomes like stone.
There is a scripture that says" the heart is treacherous and who can know it?"
To step by step plan the demise of anyone is to my mind the blackest of black acts and makes me think of Columbine.
very disturbing to me. I never see any beauty in unkindness. Just cannot and I have tried.

[Virgil]

Thanks Rachel. I've been riding but I never noticed day old droppings. I'll have ask my wife; she's been around horses more than I have. She claims she married a jackass. No, I'm only kidding. She doesn't claim that, but the joke fell to easily off my lips.

[Virgil]

Let me post another poem for the week, one by George Herbert, a 17th century metaphysical poet. Keep in mind he was an Anglican priest (if that's the right term). Most of his poetry has religious themes. This one ("The Collar") I particularly like. It's an expression of his desire to break free of his religious duties. But it has a surprise ending. The collar, of course, refers to the religious collar that he apparently wears but it's a pun as well; the collar as a yoke.


The Collar by George Herbert

I Struck the board, and cried, "No more.
I will abroad.
What ? shall I ever sigh and pine ?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit ?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit ?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me ?
Have I no bays to crown it ?
No flowers, no garlands gay ? all blasted ?
All wasted ?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And you have hands.
Recover all your sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave your cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not. Forsake your cage,
Your rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to you
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be your law,
While you did wink and would not see.
Away; take heed:
I will abroad.
Call in your death’s head there: tie up your fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load."
But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,
I thought I heard one calling, "Child !"
And I replied, "My Lord."


Edit: I noticed that it didn't paste in the post as I copied it. He indents in many places for emphasis and for stanza structure. This was lost from the copy/paste. Sorry.

[rachel]

He echos what I have gone thru many times in my walk with God. But he is covenanted as I am and that is a bond stronger than whims and fancies, of h ormones and changing humours thru the passage of years. I love it, I love metaphysical poetry for the most part.
oh and dear Virgil, jackass droppings long sat in the wind and rain and harsh unyielding sun have not the same glitter nor cast. they seem to stubbornly stay dark grey like their owner. jackass indeed. sweet man perhaps but never that. goyim perhaps never jackass.

[Virgil]

He echos what I have gone thru many times in my walk with God. But he is covenanted as I am and that is a bond stronger than whims and fancies, of h ormones and changing humours thru the passage of years. I love it, I love metaphysical poetry for the most part.
oh and dear Virgil, jackass droppings long sat in the wind and rain and harsh unyielding sun have not the same glitter nor cast. they seem to stubbornly stay dark grey like their owner. jackass indeed. sweet man perhaps but never that. goyim perhaps never jackass.

Thanks, Rachel. You're a dear.

[Riesa]

Hey guys, somehow missed Virgil's question. Rachel is right, of course, what else?
Horse droppings turn from dark to light with the passage of time, and generally keep their shape, unless disturbed somehow. I always thought of that line as taking something as mundane as waste, and turning it into a precious thing, gold. How small moments or a glance at a winter river (while driving bickering children to school), can catch your eye, and fill your heart and soul with wonder and the joy to be alive.

also, I take it you two haven't seen a spotted baby jack before? There is sweetness and loveliness in the lowliest creature, (not saying that you are lowly, Virgil just defending my lovely equine friends) and I'm too distracted to read the above poem, Virgil. I just brought home my new puppy. Check out the animal posts in the near future for some puppy pix.

[Virgil]

Oh, a new puppy!!! I must see pictures.

[rachel]

I think brandi must be THE most loved and cherished of dogs, how blessed she is to have a tender and devoted owner like you Virgil.
Riesa why don't you write a book of poetry. You see things thru the eyes of the Creator and tired hearts and broken minds would find nourishment and peace in your words that come down softly always into my mind like dove's feathers bringing such a hushed and holy quiet feeling.