Poetry (bookstrut)
hertzhog
865 Posts
I haven't really read too much poetry-- it has bothered me for years and now I decided it's time to do something about it. Pretty much all I have on my shelf is some Bukowski and Neruda. I'm mainly looking for 20th century stuff, so that should narrow it down a bit. Difficult or easy, it doesn't really matter. And since christmas is coming up, you could throw in some good non-poetry reads, too...
Comments
You CANNOT leave out William Carlos Williams: He is as essential as it gets. Additionally, he took so many risks and adventurous turns with his career that there's something for everyone.
I also like Auden quite a bit, especially "In Praise of Limestone," one of my favorite poems. He's a feeler, so if you like poetry from the heart, he's the man.
I don't really do much Pound, although some of his Cantos are anthologized.
Can you tell I like the modernists?
Wallace Stevens would be another big name. You could do a selected works book from him and be fine, although his stuff is all quality--probably the most consistent, in my opinion.
I'd avoid ee cummings.
Charles Olson is great, but you have to dedicate a lot of time to his stuff. There's a connection between him and John Cage through the Black Mountain school. That'd be interesting to look in to.
I like Elizabeth Bishop, especially "The Waiting Room."
John Ashbery is utterly confusing. Again, gotta spend a lot of time with his stuff.
And that's where I end. I could care less about modern poetry since I think most of it is shit published by a group of influential friends. That and half of the selections I read in the "Best Ofs" books from the past five years deal with trauma, and I just don't care for it. Rarely do any of these books feature writers under 35, so we're stuck with writers with shit in their pants.
That and nobody publishes spatial poetry, which is what I like to read/write.
Someone else can give you the goods on the Pomo stuff. I obviously hate what's being called good Pomo poetry...
Too old to carry arms and fight like the others -
they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler
I record - I don't know for whom - the history of the siege
I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began
two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn
everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time
all we have left is the place the attachment to the place
we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses
if we lose the ruins nothing will be left
I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks
monday: empty storehouses a rat became the unit of currency
tuesday: the mayor murdered by unknown assailants
wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned our messengers
we don't know where they are held that is the place of torture
thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of voices rejected
the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender
friday: the beginning of the plague saturday: our invincible defender
N.N. committed suicide sunday: no more water we drove back
an attack at the eastern gate called the Gate of the Alliance
all of this is monotonous I know it can't move anyone
I avoid any commentary I keep a tight hold on my emotions I write about the facts
only they it seems are appreciated in foreign markets
yet with a certain pride I would like to inform the world
that thanks to the war we have raised a new species of children
our children don???t like fairy tales they play at killing
awake and asleep they dream of soup of bread and bones
just like dogs and cats
in the evening I like to wander near the outposts of the city
along the frontier of our uncertain freedom.
I look at the swarms of soldiers below their lights
I listen to the noise of drums barbarian shrieks
truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself
the siege has lasted a long time the enemies must take turns
nothing unites them except the desire for our extermination
Goths the Tartars Swedes troops of the Emperor regiments of the Transfiguration
who can count them
the colours of their banners change like the forest on the horizon
from delicate bird's yellow in spring through green through red to winter's black
and so in the evening released from facts I can think
about distant ancient matters for example our
friends beyond the sea I know they sincerely sympathize
they send us flour lard sacks of comfort and good advice
they don???t even know their fathers betrayed us
our former allies at the time of the second Apocalypse
their sons are blameless they deserve our gratitude therefore we are grateful
they have not experienced a siege as long as eternity
those struck by misfortune are always alone
the defenders of the Dalai Lama the Kurds the Afghan mountaineers
now as I write these words the advocates of conciliation
have won the upper hand over the party of inflexibles
a normal hesitation of moods fate still hangs in the balance
cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders is smaller
yet the defence continues it will continue to the end
and if the City falls but a single man escapes
he will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile
he will be the City
we look in the face of hunger the face of fire face of death
worst of all - the face of betrayal
and only our dreams have not been humiliated
Zbigniew Herbert
YES!
Buy this guy's stuff.
I first read his poetry in "A Book of Luminous Things" edited by Czeslaw Milosz and proceeded to do a term papar on "Elegy of Fortinbras."
If you like this guy you might also like the poetry of Raymond Carver. I'm reminded of him because of the aforementioned "Book of Luminous Things" which featured Carver's poem "Wine."
Mahmoud Darwich
good for a browse.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
The Little Black Boy
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but oh my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointed to the east, began to say:
"Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
"For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, 'Come out from the grove, my love and care
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice',"
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.
William Blake
how many cups of coffee
can i drink when coffee
hurts my gut
two fold
too many cars in ditches
by the way...
fuck iambic pentameter
this is my drive
and my poem
back to the car
how do you drive when you???re scared
of the road ahead
again
cars
in ditches
coffee gut
wired for sound with records in the back
bounty for mortgage
wish i liked most of it
Jersey turns to Jersey cows
Jersey cows to darkness
2am there she is
coffee gut gone
This year's facemelters:
Anna Moschovakis - I have not been able to get through to everyone
Ted Mathys - Forge (okay, fall 2005, but still)
Juliet Patterson - The Truant Lover (sapphic heat, with nods to Charles Olson)
Ben Lerner - Angle of Yaw (he makes it look so easy, it's like he's taunting you...)
For older, more established living (and recently dead) poets, check:
Nicanor Parra
Denise Levertov
Julio Cortazar (the CityLights selected poems is really meaty)
Charles Simic (check the '70s stuff like Austerities and Charon's Cosmology)
James Tate
Lisel Mueller (deceptively simple)
personal favorites:
kenneth patchen
charles simic
russell edson
william stafford
juan ramon jimenez
mark strand
tom andrews
---
when in doubt, go back and read more blake.
This is true. I have no desire to be connected to the scene.
david antin did some cool stuff. they were called talk poems. i like to consider him a friend of mines. he gave me books in trade for mixtapes of stuffs. im sure he'd heard of most the stuff i gave him and i think he humored me with the jazz shit. but still, he was a cool dude and a great storyteller. he does what are called "talk poems" where he would basically just get up on stage and bullshit for an hour or two and record it. then transcribe it. though bullshit is not the best word to use, cuz his "bullshit" is worlds better than most peoples' well thought out diatribes.
there is some contemporary shit that i do like. though i cant name any of them. i have a couple friends that are poets and theyll show me stuff here and there, and some of it i'll dig, and other stuffs im like "eh"
The latest release is a book of poetry by Jefferson Navicky:
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