But what do the others do?

[PrinceMyshkin]

In deference to my friend Donna's burning, anguished question as to what people do when or if they DON'T write poetry, I propose a series of conjectures, to which all are invited to contribute...


Even dedicated bank robbers,
huddled together in smelly
underground rooms under a single
overhanging 100-watt light bulb,
the paint on the walls blistered,
the cheap deal table uneven
on the floor, their faces
cross-hatched with stubble,
little piggy-eyes agleam
as they plan their next heist,

even dedicated bank robbers
would have time, if they chose,
between robberies, to compose
a poem or two.
Why then don’t they?

[CdnReader]

LOL! I love this! I'll be back!!! :D

[Pendragon]

Give them time and they may write--recall a man named Willam Sidney Porter?

Hee. Loved the irony of the poem.

[CdnReader]

.

Hunched over keyboards
pecking away, tripping out our life's thoughts
in uneven, unrhyming lines,
while masses of others
watch....

Quiet observers....
what do they think
of all this word spillage?

Perhaps their lives are lived
in dark and private corners....
always on the fringes....
watching but never participating....
hunched over keyboards,
images of blue screens reflected in their smudged spectacles,
clicking their mice.

.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Oh, man!


.
images of blue screens reflected in their smudged spectacles,


"That's REAL caboose music, warm & daffy"

witrh gratitude to Hal Ober, a former student of mine....

[CdnReader]

Huh?? Is this a good thing? :p

[PrinceMyshkin]

Huh?? Is this a good thing? :p

Hal - a brilliant writer and sweet soul - wasfascinated with hoboes, with their lives and culture. This particular line occurs at the end of a story that takes place around an improvised cook-out, when one of the assembled hoboes takes to singing


The shrimp-boats are coming,
There'll be dancing tonight!
The shrimp-boats are coming,
There'll be dancing tonight!
Why don't you hurry-hurry-hurry home!
Why don't you hurry-hurry-hurry home!

in response to which one of them answers as in my previous post. "Caboose music" evidently referring to the songs they would sing together as they gathered in the caboos. I fail to see how "warm and daffy" could be anything BUT a good thing!

[Poppy]

Six days on the road and I'm gonna
make it home tonight, sang Dave
Dudley. Big rigs, diesel smell, brightly
lit truckstops and meals of chicken
fried steak.

Think what goes through their minds
as they shift 10 gears making trips
cross country carrying loads known and
unknown.

Radio blaring as concrete flows under
18 wheels, a consummate discussion
with others. "10-4 good buddy. What's
new with you."

Think of the sites they have seen, the
people they have met, the places they
have been, the love's they have lost,
made and rekindled.

Could not these men's men and women's
women have hundreds of collections deep
in their minds, ready to burst forth on
a piece of paper?

~Poppy

[PrinceMyshkin]

Six days on the road and I'm gonna
make it home tonight, sang Dave
Dudley. Big rigs, diesel smell, brightly
lit truckstops and meals of chicken
fried steak.

Think what goes through their minds
as they shift 10 gears making trips
cross country carrying loads known and
unknown.

Radio blaring as concrete flows under
18 wheels, a consummate discussion
with others. "10-4 good buddy. What's
new with you."

Think of the sites they have seen, the
people they have met, the places they
have been, the love's they have lost,
made and rekindled.

Could not these men's men and women's
women have hundreds of collections deep
in their minds, ready to burst forth on
a piece of paper?

~Poppy

Indeed they might and a damned fine poem this was on their behalf. I hope neither you nor anyone else thinks I was meaning to put these folks down. The premise of the thread is more about how much writing poetry means to us that we can't imagine others doing without it - NOT That they're inferior in any way if they do do without it! Any one of us I betcha knows a poet or two who's a real bona fide turkey (or maybe a capon?)!

[TheFifthElement]

They ride their bicycles,
take long walks along the beach.
Listen! Can you hear the sea?
It whispers quietly at their feet
so as not to disturb the flow
of their conversation.

They hang around in packs,
crazed wild dogs howling
at the breeze. On the streets
they bob and weave with
bellies full of wine, sloshing
side to side, making contact
with walls and strangers.

They make love ardently,
intensely, exploring
the sensitivity of skin,
the taste of a lover’s kiss,
the momentary connection
of one soul to another.

They see us hiding,
hunched over a computer
screen, or pen and paper
in hand eyes staring to
the distance, and wonder
whether we’ll ever emerge
from the darkness.


I think they're lucky. They live their lives, while we write about it. Or perhaps that's just me? ;)

[PrinceMyshkin]

They ride their bicycles,
take long walks along the beach.
Listen! Can you hear the sea?
It whispers quietly at their feet
so as not to disturb the flow
of their conversation.

They hang around in packs,
crazed wild dogs howling
at the breeze. On the streets
they bob and weave with
bellies full of wine, sloshing
side to side, making contact
with walls and strangers.

They make love ardently,
intensely, exploring
the sensitivity of skin,
the taste of a lover’s kiss,
the momentary connection
of one soul to another.

They see us hiding,
hunched over a computer
screen, or pen and paper
in hand eyes staring to
the distance, and wonder
whether we’ll ever emerge
from the darkness.


I think they're lucky. They live their lives, while we write about it. Or perhaps that's just me? ;)

Some of us do both, Dude! And what a damned fine poem this is!

[CdnReader]

They ride their bicycles,
take long walks along the beach.
Listen! Can you hear the sea?
It whispers quietly at their feet
so as not to disturb the flow
of their conversation.

They hang around in packs,
crazed wild dogs howling
at the breeze. On the streets
they bob and weave with
bellies full of wine, sloshing
side to side, making contact
with walls and strangers.

They make love ardently,
intensely, exploring
the sensitivity of skin,
the taste of a lover’s kiss,
the momentary connection
of one soul to another.

They see us hiding,
hunched over a computer
screen, or pen and paper
in hand eyes staring to
the distance, and wonder
whether we’ll ever emerge
from the darkness.


I love this, Fifth. Thanks for this "opposite" viewpoint. :)

[firefangled]

Your poem, in a roll of craft paper,
would not have survived,
another Nativity, or Resurrection;
the thinly drawn client angels,
impatiently posed in prayer
would demand
their glorious creation
from the stroke of your silk hand.

I can see you now,
in my surrogate memory,
but there was no one then
for whom you wrote,
why the colors bled in the kiln,
with the pieces of the risen Christ,
and how that affected you;
there was a contract, a church
and a Monsignor’s promise
to the Bishop —
wait until you see his work.

The craft paper will remain
in a roll, in a closet,
and your poetry is there,
not in the artifice of lines,
but in its pristine form,
left when last your hands,
warm and alone,
your eyes, heavy with a days work,
leaned it to the wall and went to bed.

[firefangled]

Poppy, when I was a teenager, I loved this song, loved the words, music. I don't know why I didn't become a truck driver with my wunderlust and love of road trips. Except for the hemorrhoids, I think I might have liked it.

Great tribute and poem!!

[firefangled]

They see us hiding,
hunched over a computer
screen, or pen and paper
in hand eyes staring to
the distance, and wonder
whether we’ll ever emerge
from the darkness.


I think they're lucky. They live their lives, while we write about it. Or perhaps that's just me? ;)


I often wonder about this beyond poetry. For a few years in my very early life away from home, I lived in my car by the beach. I think now sometimes, what is better: to live with total abandon, without the amazing trappings (very appropriate word) of a "successful life" a life of "artful introspection" and blah, blah, blah. It is nothing to be shrugged off lightly.

Now you have made me think of this again, just when I was getting used to this quiet desperation. :yawnb:

In the end, what makes it worthwhile to have something to lose is what we leave behind for others that, in its ethereal quality, we could have taken with us.

Very nicely done LeeLoo.

[firefangled]

LOL! I love this! I'll be back!!! :D

Thanks Cdn!!! Look what a simple question creates. Thanks to Prince as well. This is a great thread.

To compound those we are trying to understand, what about, as Paul Simon put it, the words of the prophets written on the subway walls.

When we ask why don't they write poetry? How are we defining poetry?

[Poppy]

Indeed they might and a damned fine poem this was on their behalf. I hope neither you nor anyone else thinks I was meaning to put these folks down. The premise of the thread is more about how much writing poetry means to us that we can't imagine others doing without it - NOT That they're inferior in any way if they do do without it! Any one of us I betcha knows a poet or two who's a real bona fide turkey (or maybe a capon?)!


Not at all Jerry, but just as I was reading the posts, I thought of that song and thought you know these guys and gals spend so much time alone to think
about their life experiences that there is bound to be much they could express in poetry or prose. This could be applied to anyone I would presume.

[ampoule]

When we ask why don't they write poetry? How are we defining poetry?

I agree. I think that's what I was trying to say in Prince's 'Lapwing' thread.



I wonder too. Perhaps their poetry is the way they live their lives, the simple mundane things that we often romanticize. They just don't need or know how to express them. I feel sad for them because I would die. My feelings would possibly offend them.

And as we all know, poetry isn't all about love and beauty and dancing in fields of flowers and swinging on stars. (Wow! Listen to me, the big know-it-all!) :blush: :D :sick:

[firefangled]

I agree. I think that's what I was trying to say in Prince's 'Lapwing' thread.


And as we all know, poetry isn't all about love and beauty and dancing in fields of flowers and swinging on stars. (Wow! Listen to me, the big know-it-all!) :blush: :D :sick:


I envy those who write very stark poetry, not that it is not about love or dancing in fields of flowers, but where the language is lean and in your face. Louise Gluck's poetry is like that.

I have thinking lately I want to write some poetry that has no angels, no rainbows, no moons, no mist. It often feels like a handicap when I find myself stuck there. As Seinfeld says, not that there's anything wrong with that.:p

[PrinceMyshkin]

Then there are the commuters
with the same damned scenery
stuck fast to the windows
of their trains, planes, automobiles,
offices, retirement homes or
gated communities, the same
damned cow pasted against the same
field of green, the cotton-batten cloud
pinned to the never-ending blue sky,
the tenements, the factories, the brand
new Wal-Mart - or is that the same one
was there yesterday? While lines and lines
of poetry scroll by, unwritten,
never to be written, never to be read.

[TheFifthElement]

Nice poem Prince Myshkin. I for one enjoy my train journey, there are always different people to look at, even if the scenery outside is the same.


I have thinking lately I want to write some poetry that has no angels, no rainbows, no moons, no mist. It often feels like a handicap when I find myself stuck there. As Seinfeld says, not that there's anything wrong with that.:p

This echoes my own thoughts. I wonder why, when writing poetry, we are so drawn to nature and natural phenomena like rainbows, water, trees, landscape, sun, stars and moon. It seems instinctive.

[ampoule]

Then there are the commuters
with the same damned scenery
stuck fast to the windows
of their trains, planes, automobiles,
offices, retirement homes or
gated communities, the same
damned cow pasted against the same
field of green, the cotton-batten cloud
pinned to the never-ending blue sky,
the tenements, the factories, the brand
new Wal-Mart - or is that the same one
was there yesterday? While lines and lines
of poetry scroll by, unwritten,
never to be written, never to be read.

But that's it! You...we...write the poems for them. They don't have to do the work because we love it so. They like being our protagonists.
I grew up with a very impatient mother who would not give me a chance to answer for myself. I think I still pause before answering to see if someone else is going to jump in there and do it for me.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I agree. I think that's what I was trying to say in Prince's 'Lapwing' thread.


And as we all know, poetry isn't all about love and beauty and dancing in fields of flowers and swinging on stars. (Wow! Listen to me, the big know-it-all!) :blush: :D :sick:


The big know-it-all who presumes
to be the expert on her own mind,
to speak of her feelings!
She who could spin you a poem
or a story on every article
in her drawer of lingerie,
her every sweater - the one she bought
to console herself when the air
went out of a love affair; the one
at Neiman-Marcus
that was going for a song
and looked so adorable on her!

The big know-it-all who gave herself
to this or that book as if
it was the lover at last
who would sweep her off her feet
--and leave her standing tall!
The big know-it-all!

[ampoule]

I envy those who write very stark poetry, not that it is not about love or dancing in fields of flowers, but where the language is lean and in your face. Louise Gluck's poetry is like that.

I have thinking lately I want to write some poetry that has no angels, no rainbows, no moons, no mist. It often feels like a handicap when I find myself stuck there. As Seinfeld says, not that there's anything wrong with that.:p

Oh, please do not envy them for I love where you go and how you show us the way. But I took a peek at Louise's poetry and after what you said, I was very surprised to read her 'celestial' titles. But reading, I understand. This one somewhat addresses what we are talking about here.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/celestial-music/

[ampoule]

The big know-it-all who presumes
to be the expert on her own mind,
to speak of her feelings!
She who could spin you a poem
or a story on every article
in her drawer of lingerie,
her every sweater - the one she bought
to console herself when the air
went out of a love affair; the one
at Neiman-Marcus
that was going for a song
and looked so adorable on her!

The big know-it-all who gave herself
to this or that book as if
it was the lover at last
who would sweep her off her feet
--and leave her standing tall!
The big know-it-all!

Psst! Would someone please cover Sweets eyes for me? ;)

Come here Prince..... **SMOOCH!**
:D

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thanks Cdn!!! Look what a simple question creates. Thanks to Prince as well. This is a great thread.

To compound those we are trying to understand, what about, as Paul Simon put it, the words of the prophets written on the subway walls.

When we ask why don't they write poetry? How are we defining poetry?

"When I use a word, it means just what I chose it to mean, neither more nor less!"

[Sweets America]

Then there are the commuters
with the same damned scenery
stuck fast to the windows
of their trains, planes, automobiles,
offices, retirement homes or
gated communities, the same
damned cow pasted against the same
field of green, the cotton-batten cloud
pinned to the never-ending blue sky,
the tenements, the factories, the brand
new Wal-Mart - or is that the same one
was there yesterday? While lines and lines
of poetry scroll by, unwritten,
never to be written, never to be read.


This reveals very much how life can sometimes be experienced as being a burden for a lot of people. People who live one day after the other, stuck in a repetitive and dull daily life, and who do not take the time to think of it. Poems are written by persons who detach themselves from their daily lives and who see it from an external point of view. All the unwritten poems, the ones never to be read...make me think of the fact that some people do not take the time to look at life from a distance and to think of what they experience, or to learn from it.
This is what this poem means, to me.

Ampoule! What you said about your mother! Reminds me a great deal of mine!

[PrinceMyshkin]

This reveals very much how life can sometimes be experienced as being a burden for a lot of people. People who live one day after the other, stuck in a repetitive and dull daily life, and who do not take the time to think of it. Poems are written by persons who detach themselves from their daily lives and who see it from an external point of view. All the unwritten poems, the ones never to be read...make me think of the fact that some people do not take the time to look at life from a distance and to think of what they experience, or to learn from it.
This is what this poem means, to me.

Ampoule! What you said about your mother! Reminds me a great deal of mine!

I'm reminded of two quotations in similar spirit to what you write here: "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them." Henry David Thoreau

"The unexamined life is not worth living." Socrates.

But though I cannot and would not want to imagine my own life without song, and though I examine it - sometimes to the point where I examine more than live it - I want always to be careful NOT To assume that my way is the only or the best way to live.

And of course there is this from Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Church-ard:"


Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

[Pendragon]

Reflections and Remembrance

When I pass from this world to wherever,
How will this world remember this man?
Will it be for the sermons and prayers I have prayed,
Or will everyone just rejoice and be glad?
Will my pages of poetry outlive the poet,
Or will they be incinerated along with my body?
One day you’re a troubadour; the next, an outcast—
Hard as a stone in a world that won’t allow you to change…
Perhaps there’s still a path that this old Cougar must walk,
One that none can see but myself.
I will not go silently into the vacuum of endless night,
I will carve in a stone of quartz pure as the soul—
“Remember: I never gave up—“

Pendragon
© 9/10/2007