Winter in the Neighborhood, Above and Below   Wednesday, January 14, 2015




My photos this week, more from downtown, were taken several years ago in the winter, on the river and on the streets above.

My anthology, One Hundred Poems from the Chinese, collected and translated, either initially or secondarily, by Kenneth Rexroth. The book was initially published in 1971, my twenty-second edition published by New Directions.

Then, new and old from me and from my library, all as  usual.

With my new poems I have images of  the covers of my various books; with my old poems I have included examples of the art that is included in my first book, Seven Beats a Second" published in 2005, all by my collaborator on the book,  Vincent Martinez. Every page of the book includes Vincent's art, some sharing the page with a poem, some having a page of their own. This was, in addition to being my first book, the only one  published in  a print format. The rest of the books are eBooks, available wherever eBooks  are  sold.  The first, print book is available on Amazon (as are  the eBooks).


Here are my offerings for the week.


Me 
talk to the finger

Tu Fu
Banquet at the Tso Family Manor

Me 
wrapping up the old year

Robert Bonazzi
Unframed Portraits

Me
in the course of my life 

Lu Yu
Rain on the River
Evening in the Village

Me
bits and pieces from a Tuesday morning that seems like Monday

Luci Tapahonso
Outside a Small House  

Me
according to chatter on the net

Li Ch'ing Chao
The Day of Cold Food  

Me
clarification

Mary Swander
Frog  Gig

Me
another dark, misty morning

Ou Tang Hsiu
Old  Age

Me
to hell with politics

Archilochos
Singer
Liar
Three from the Field
String and Reed

Me
in  a land so far away

Tu Fu
A Restless Night in Camp

Me
reply to a critic who takes himself and much too seriously

e. e. cummings
from "Poems from the 1920s" 

Me
big thoughts  
         







Here's my poem  for New Year's Day.

I'm sure all "Here and Now" readers know this, but case some don't:

Our current Gregorian  Calendar, is the calendar most  widely used around the world. It was established in 1582 by Pope Gregory XIII and was a refinement on the previous Julian Calendar (introduced by Julius Caesar in 46 BC). It brought a .002 percent change to the length of the year and provider for a leap year every 4 years. The primary motivation for the revision had to do with making sure Easter fell in the period agreed upon by the First Council of Nicaea in the year 325.

Just in case anyone asks.





talk to the  finger

so the Pope waves his finger in the air
and randomly points
and
"This," he  says,
"will be the first day of the new year
and the day previous the end
of the year just past."

and so it has been since...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hung over," you say.

well, don't come crying to me about  it,
talk to Pope Greg about his roving  finger instead

he's the one that started the whole thing...

so as you address your well-earned
misery, there is nothing
for me to say
but -

"Happy New Year," from Pope G and me
to you.














First from this week's Chinese anthology, this by Tu Fu, one of Tang dynasty masters, born in 712 and  died in 770













Banquet at the Tso Family Manors

The windy forest is checkered
By the light of the setting,
Waning moon. I tune the lute.
Its strings are moist with dew,
The brook flows in the darkness
Blow the flower  path. The thatched
Roof is crowned with constellations.
As we write the candles burn short.
Our wits grow sharp as swords while
The wine goes round. When the poem
Contest is ended, someone
Sings a song of the South. And
I think of my little boat,
And long to be on my way.









Here's an old poem from the end of the year,  2008. The  thing about this poem for me is that six years later I still haven't taken the little trip described in it. I've driven the road between here and there probably at least a thousand times and even just the thought of doing it again makes me sleepy. But there are some pictures down there I want, so next month, February, for sure, I'll do it, unless something really important comes up like maybe, sorting out my sock drawer.

Also,  the tamale thing - this was the Christmas we stayed up all  night making  tamales. That won't happen again.


 





wrapping up the old  year

a sunny
77 degrees
this day after
Christmas, 80-something
tomorrow

reindeer
heat stroke
warnings on TV and radio

11 dozen
tamales to eat
or  give away
and I'm already
ready
for a  ham and cheese
sandwich
instead

a quiet week ahead,
with a new year starting
in the middle of it

thinking
of an over-nighter
to Brownsville
try to capture its true bi-cultural feel,
maybe walk across the river
to Garcia's
for drinks and a fine game dinner,
quail or maybe a cabrito,
maybe drive down to Boca Chica
where we used to find
conch shells as big  as basketballs,
or maybe stop in at the wildlife preserve
on the river before the wall
cuts it in half,  killing both sides

just a little something to  do
before 2008
limps off the scene








 First from my library, a poem by Robert Bonazzi from his book, Maestro of Solitude, published by Wings Press in 2007.

Bonazzi, born in New York City in 1942, has also lived in San Francisco, Mexico City, Florida and several cities in Texas. His essays,  reviews, short stories and poems have appeared internationally in over 200 publications. From 1966 to 2000, he edited and published over one hundred titles under his Latitudes Press imprint.

This poem I especially relate to, being one of those endangered myself.









Unframed Portraits

I

Flat nose, unfinished lump of putty,
immovable, off center

Silvering mustache rides overbite
in tight grimace,obscuring stained
crooked  teeth, short goatee
spiced with pepper and salt
camouflages a week chin

Eyes receding in sockets
brown-bold rises surrounding
alert pupils stare over
darkened visions

II

I  look directly through to a blank wall
where others see a reflected image
I cannot perceive
beyond a desert of pure light
to a shadowy room
wherein hangs an
empty mirror

III

Forgive  if I seem to be
talking to  myself -

I  do not write for an ideal  reader
or contemplate  a classic muse

Today a fellow poet declared
that I'm not  really a poet

Characterizing my efforts as
fragments more or less in
the manner of Pascal

I burst into several meanings of laughter
secretly honored and humbled

Forgive if I seem to be trapped in a monologue -

I belong to a species most  endangered:
I  do not know my name.













Going backwards in time, first was my  New Year's Day poem and  now my New Year's Eve poem.











in the course of my life

the course of my life
has fully validated my life-long
lack of expectation and enthusiasm
related to any turning of the clock
from any worn  old year
to  any baby new one, because,
let's face it, the babe in his party hat arriving on
January 1st is the same old stooped and limping  codger
who shuffled off the night of December31st,
who, with a little cosmetic surgery and a couple of hours
at the gym, is back at the first new dawn's break,
eager and able to fool us fools into thinking
anything has changed...

because no matter how we wish it, it's for sure that no accumulation
of days and weeks and months and years are going to change
our essential natures - we are what  we were and we will be what  we are
until the final sand is kicked in our face and the whole thing
is over - that's the change that can never be accommodated to a calendar -
we were, we are, we aren't and it ain't  our happy new year
no more...

but it's not so bad

the old year was usually mostly okay, and whatever comes next, well it's plain to me
that the best and most important thing about whatever comes next
is that it comes next, whatever number you put on it,
and in the end mostly okay and original,like reading 1984
and waiting for 20 years for the calendar to change to that magic number
and seeing, well hell, there's nothing different - which in my mind,
and especially in this example,  is mostly a good thing, prompting
those most encouraging of words -

been there...

done  that...

and it wasn't as bad as it could have been













Next from the anthology, two short poems by Lu Yu. Born in 733, Lu is respected as the "Sage of Tea" for his contribution to Chinese tea culture and is best known for his book The Classic of Tea, the first definitive work on cultivating, making and drinking tea. He died in 804.








Rain on the River

In the fog we drift hither
And yon over the dark waves.
At last our  little boat finds
Shelter under a willow bank.
At midnight I am awake,
Heavy with wine. The smoky
Lamp is still burning. The rain
Is still sighing in the bamboo
Thatch of the cabin of the boat.


Evening in the Village

Here in the mountain village
Evening falls peacefully.
Half tipsy, I lounge in the
Doorway. The moon shines in the
Twilit sky. The breeze is so
Gentle the water is hardly
Ruffled. I have escaped from
Lies and trouble. I no longer
Have any importance. I
Do not miss my horses and
Chariots. Here  at home I
Have plenty of pits and chickens.










Going backward in time again, from the end of 2008 to the beginning of the year.

This written on a particularly boring morning while scoring essays from a state assessment tests with the whole boring  rest of the day to  go.









bits and pieces from a Tuesday morning that seems like Monday

1
green lichen
on  bare
branches
over brown
grass gathered
in the cold forest
like boy scouts
at camp

2
sunshine
on a foggy day

seen from  my
high  place
tree tops
float
in cotton swirl

3
the hive
buzzes
with low voices
all eyes tight
on computer screens

every now and then
loud laughter
at something seen
in a child's writing
wakes
the room

4
a thermos  top
pops
and brown coffee
eyes
open  like
Pavlov's
dog

5
 green winter rain
anticipates spring

too soon

6
work done
wandering halls
waiting
for approval

will write a poem

soon









From my library, one of the first books I bought in 2006 when I started "Here and Now," Saanii Dahataal - The Women Are Singing, a collection of poems and stories by Navajo writer Luci Tapahonso. The book was published by The University of Arizona Press in 1993.

Born in 1953 on the Navajo reservation at Shiprock, New Mexico, Tapahonso is the current Poet Laureate of the Navajo Nation. She grew up in a traditional way with eleven siblings, learning English as a second language only upon entering school.








Outside a Small House

Somewhere in the north valley
outside a small house
moths flutter powder wings
against the gleaming windows.
The windows: clear panes of death.

Inside, he paces back and forth
then slams his fist into the wall.
His buddies look up startled, then resume talking.
They are used to this: his days and nights
                                         are tireless blurs of stories and poetry,
                                         careful arrangements off rearrangements
                                         of words  and pauses that erupt
                                         as full breathing memories

No one has called me at 3 A.M. in the last ten years,
but tonight the phone rings and I am confused.

            "Can you talk?" he asks.
            He is trapped by an old loneliness -
            an old longing to hear a soft voice
            tell him stories he's never heard.
            I listen to his urgency and imagine his knuckles
            starting to bruise: first, a burning red, the light blue.
            By sunrise, dark purple circles of blood
            brimming beneath taut skin.
            I tell him the bruises will heal in about a week.
            The healing will be a reversal of colors:
            purple, blue, dim red, finally yellow.
            Then there will be no traces.

But for now, the moths outside the windows fall slowly.
They will lie soft and silent in the dawn.













A memory of a time nearly fifty years past.











according to chatter on the net

winter night under a clear desert sky

more stars than you ever knew were up there

the Hindu Kush, the sun's hinge
as it begins its red glow
behind their dry, ravaged peaks

the guard camp
outside our walls begins to stir,
the shuffle of sleepy soldiers awakening
as the over-nighters come weary to their beds

I, a soldier too, but not in their army,
walk to morning mess, then
to work, day shift on Moscow time

a Cold War warrior,
I will listen to their chatter
and write it all down...

the day begins...

an early flight for their highest commander,
crossing the Afghan air gate,
a roundabout destination, to Paris,
his dour Russian wife left behind, it's said,
who suspects, it's said,
the jolie fille who awaits him
with bonbons au chocolat 
 and a bottle of clear and pure 
green label Moskovskaya
by her  bed...

according to chatter on the net
the war will not start  today...













The next anthology poet is Li Ch'ing Chao. Born in 1081, she was a writer and poet  well known  among the elite of the Song dynasty, unusually outgoing and knowledgeable for a woman of noble birth in her time. She died in 1141.











The Day of Cold Food

Clear and bright  is the splendor
Of Spring on the Day of Cold Food.
the dying smoke  rises from
The jade animal like a
silk thread floating in water.
I dream on a pile of cushions,
Amongst scattered and token hair ornaments.
The swallows have not come back
From the Southern Sea, but already
Men begin  again,  fighting for straws,
Petals fly form the peach trees
Along the river.Willow catkins
Fill the air with floss. And then -
In the orange twilight - fall
Widely spaced drops of rain.













Here's another poem from January, 2008. Nobody ever 'splained it to me so clearly before.












clarification

young girl
maybe twenty
not much more
fiery
in speech
and manner
says

there ain't no
country
called Hispanica
so how can I be
Hispanic

and there ain't
never been no
country
called Latin
and if they was
they been dead
a couple of thousand
years
anyway

so no way
I'm
Latin

but there is a
Mexico
and that's where
my blood roots  lie
so that makes me
Mexican -

you got a problem
with that?








Next from my library, here is a poem by Mary Swander, from her book Heaven-and-Earth House, published Knopf in 1994.

Swander, born in Iowa in 1950, is a poet and author of two memoirs whose awards include a National Endowment for the Arts grant, a Carl Sandburg Literary Award, the National-Discovery Award, and others. A graduate of the Iowa Writer's Workshop, she is Distinguished Professor of English at Iowa State University.

The poem reminds me of when I was a kid and we would go frogging along the arroyo down the road from us. My father made a swatter by spreading some very thick electrical cable, much easier to swat the frogs then stab them with a gig. I was a champion frog-swatter and frog-leg-eater - always fried, never steamed.





Frog Gig

It took a whole plateful  to make a meal -
food #7 I could eat without blacking out -
those little white pairs of pantaloons.

Oh, I'd pithed Kermits - needle from the tray,
lab partner, scholar-shipped wrestler, locking
thumb and index finger around the squirmer's neck.

No, it was the pileup of those limbs, steamed and soggy
like wet laundry, that made me pick the tendons
from my teeth with special care, and know

those doctors lied who said it'd taste like chicken.
These were no white feathers beside a red wheelbarrow
glazed in rain, no Sunday dinners, the whole family

gathered in the kitchen, home from ten o'clock Mass,
still singing hymns, pressure cooker on the stove
so my grandmother could gum her portion.

Once, due to expenses, I went out with friends
to Corker's Pond, the water quiet, clear.
Tiny piece of bandanna dangling from the end

of a fishing line, we groped through the dark,
sun going down, and followed their croaks and plops,
our hooks tangling in the cattails. We lay on the bank

for hours and held our rods just above their heads,
but not one hopped at the cloth, not one crooned
so much depends upon, nor short out its forked tongue.












The whole week, pre-Christmas to the new year, has been the kind of wet, mid-to-upper 30s, cold that soaks into everything, from you bones to the inside of your house. Dreary, dreary days and dark cold nights, I guess we should be pleased that it's only been  a week and not a whole season like in  other places.











another dark, misty morning

another dark, misty morning
car lights on the interstate like
streaks on wet glass...

I think of other mornings
on the coast, driving to work
on Shoreline Blvd, stopping
at the first T-head to soak in
the smell of salty morning air,
like a caterpillar in a cocoon,
not yet ready to try its new wings,
I am embraced and embrace in turn
the soft, wet fur of fog, drifting slowly,
bay to shore, up the bluff to the  city center
and to my office where a new day
is, for a while, delayed

and in this drifting mist I hear but cannot see a gull
nearby, calling in gull-squawky voice
to the morning, to the lost moon
and the tardy sun,  content, as am  I,
to wait, to let it all work itself out,
to enjoy the never-when,
the never-where of a morning
pulled from time and place, leaving
no anchor to the here and now
but the cry of a hungry bird...

a brisk wind swirls across the bay,
pushes a soft, passing hole in the fog
to reveal the gull, on a piling,  near
close enough to touch, then lost again
as the breeze passes, as must the bird,
as must I, both knowing the world
will be  calling  soon












I can relate to the next poem from the anthology. Sounds like me talking to my Doc during my quarterly checkups.

It's by Ou Tang Hsiu, a statesman, historian, essayist, calligrapher, and poet of the Song  dynasty. He was born in 1007 and died in 1072.









Old Age

In the Springtime I  am always
Sorry the nights are so short.
My lamp is burning out, the flame
is  low. flying insects circle
About it.  I am sick. My eyes
are dry and dull. If I sit
Too long in one position,
All my bones ache. Chance thoughts from
I don't know where crowd upon me.
When I get to the end of a
Train of thought, I have forgotten
The beginning. For one thing
When I was young I liked to read.
Now I am too  old to make
the effort. Then, too, if I  come
Across something interesting
I have no one to talk to
About it. Sad and alone,
I sigh with self pity.













And another time jump, this one forward to the end of the year again, December, 2008.











to hell with politics

I'm
sitting in one of the little
cage-
feeling place they
have set aside
for laptop users
and while it's better than
trying to work at one of the wax tabletops
that leave you chasing
your laptop as it
slips
this way and that
with every single letter
typed,
I'd still be
pissed
though not entirely surprised
if someone tossed me a banana,
did those gynyeck-gynyeck-gynyeck
monkey noises in front of me

speaking of higher
life forms...

across the room
I can see the parking lot
though the big north-facing windows
and of the six cars
I see, three,
including my own,
with Obama stickers

not entirely surprising
since Obama took San Antonio
and Bexar County with about 53 percent
of the vote
but, still,  Olmos Park
is one of the richest parts of the city,
fat cats on every corner,
and not often tempted to Democrat
and even more
not willing to advertise it
when they do

has to do with
winning
I suppose

even
rich folk like
being
on the winning side...

they
just happen to be more accustomed to it than
I am

oooops!

a pretty
young girl
in a purple fedora
just sat down in front of me

blocks my view
of the parking lot
the cars
and the Obama stickers

~~~

to
hell
with politics!











From the anthology, Dances for Flute and Thunder, subtitled "Praises, Prayers and Insults" from the ancient Greek, four short pieces by Archilochos, from the 7th century B.C.

The book was published  by Penguin in 1999, with translations  by Brooks Haxton.









Singer

She took the myrtle branch and sang in turn
another song of pleasure, in her left hand still
the flower of a rose tree, and let loose
over her naked shoulder, down her arm
and back, the darkness of her hair.


Liar

Swept overboard, unconscious in the breakers
strangled with seaweed, may you wake up in a gelid
surf, your teeth, already cracked into the shingle,
now set rattling by the wind, while face down,
helpless as a poisoned cur, on all fours you puke
brine reeking of dead fish. May those you meet,
Bulgarians as ugly as their souls are hateful,
treat you to the moldy wooden bread of slaves.
And may you, with your split teeth sunk in that,
smile, then, the way you did when speaking as my friend.


Three Notes from the Field

One of them by now is gloating, holding in his hands my shield,
    a target of thick bull's hide overlaid with bronze.
I dropped it in the woods to run. Who needs this now, I said.
          Tomorrow, I can get one no worse.

***

I want to fight you, soldier, as a thirsty man wants water.

**

When we,, a thousand, overtook the seven me who ran,
    we swarmed for blood, even onto their corpses


String and Reed

I can lead off in a song to the bittersweet Lesbian flute,
     or sing Ayie to Dionysus, thunderstruck with wine.












This piece has all the rhythm of 48 Ford on a deeply rutted, caliche road, but, it was Friday and I needed a poem and this is what a got. The good and the not so, all have their place in the  history of me.












in a land so far away

in a land so far away
I could never go, a creature
so unlike me we could never meet,
extends his sweetly licouriced ocular extensions
to view the oh-so-far-away bright that lights my day
and the tiny turning speck circling third from its blazing glory,
this tiny island that is  giver of life for the me and all around me,
and wonders about that place so far away where even he  could never go
and if there might be such a creature there so unlike him they could never meet,
creatures such as he and me, so far apart and so unlike,  joined with the kindred souls of life
that  includes all of him and all of me and all that could ever be, souls entwined there in the far-some

in between
thinking
each and all
of all the places
too far to go
and others so unlike
they can only meet
in this forever
conclave
of souls in the
forever
in between












I finish off the anthology this week with another by Tu Fu.

The last fifteen years of Tu's life were a time of almost constant unrest, a time, like this one, that is reflected and reported on in much of his work of that period, a reason he is known as the "Historian-Poet."










A  Restless Night in Camp

In the penetrating damp
I sleep under the bamboos,
Under the penetrating
Moonlight in  the wilderness.
The thick  dew turns to fine mist.
One by one the stars go out.
Only the fireflies are left.
Birds cry over the water.
War breeds its consequences.
It is useless to worry,
Wakeful while the long night goes.










Last from my old poems this week, from December, 2008,  this  response to those among my critics, one in particular, who has all of poetry in a box in the back of his brain and who finds it necessary to constantly point out to me how what I do just doesn't  fit in that box at all.

He means it as criticism and doesn't understand how I take it as  praise.








reply to a critic who takes himself and me much too seriously

look
there are no babies
being fed here,
no tyrants being bought
to heel,
no visit
to  the home-bound,
no rehab
of  housing for the homeless,
no justice
for the poor and downtrodden

there
are no cures  here
for diseases
that maim and kill

no
philosophy
to light the way
to personal fulfillment,
no formula
for  turning water to  wine,
lead to gold,
scrap  bobby pins,
electric toasters,
and old video games
to  a clean, inexhaustible
energy source

there is none of that
serious stuff
here...

it's
just a damn poem,
an old man's game,
an alternative  to daytime TV,
a reminder that there is still life
in this husk and thought
in this dying
shrinking
brain

if you read it
or
if you don't
will have no impact
on the realities
of our struggling
needy world...

I can live with that












I did a poem by e. e. cummings a couple of weeks ago. The next poem is from a different book, Etcetera, The Unpublished Poems, a collection first published by Liveright in 1983, nearly 20 years after the poet's death. The poem is the first from the section of the book titled "Poems from the 1920s"










1.

the newly

cued
motif smites truly to beautifully
retire through its english

the forwardflung backwardspinning top  returns fasterishly
whipped the top leaps bounding upon other tops to caroming
off persists displacing is own and their lives how
grow  slowly and first into different deaths

concentric arithmetics of transparency slightly
joggled sink through algebras of proud

inwardlyness to collide spirally with iron geometries
and mesh with
which when both

march outward into the freezing fire of thickness

everywhere is updownwardisly
found nowherecoloured curvecorners
gush silently into solids
more fluid than gas













It  really was a helluva storm, not much rain, but continuous thundering for an hour and a half, the longest, constant-booming  thunderstorm I've ever been in.












big thoughts

was thinking
this would be a day for "big thoughts"

but the only thing I can think of is the big thunderstorm
that passed over last night,
like the guns of Navarone booming,
like the curtains of everlasting ripped open
upon the crucifixion of Christ,
booming...

hell of a storm
is what I'm saying,
right outside my bedroom window,

booming
like a mountain opening,
the four horsemen
coming
to take us all,
like the beginning and ending
of creation
together booming
right outside my bedroom widow,
woke the wife,
scared the dog right into bed with me
and she's hardly ever scared of
nothing
but I could see prospects of dog heaven
dancing in her eyes
which reminds me Pope Frank says
dogs can go to heaven too,
which means, they being morally superior creatures
to us in every meaningful way,
that they'll probably be more of them
than of us so  we'll  probably have to accommodate
the canine majority, learn to sniff butts and pee on hydrants
and such
and
like I said, a hell of a storm
right outside my
bedroom
window

booming







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2 Comments:
at 12:40 PM Anonymous Anonymous said...

wonderful photos- will read poetry if time

Notes re state of American (amurikan) poetryI

find much poetry today is really prose- people cut lines off a la wm carlos wms or pound- w no sense of rythm- try just running lines together w much poetry and see if it makes any difference- it doesn't.

too little music- academic, or as i say it- adaeemic (as in anemic poetry) most also lacks passion-it’s demure, effete, discreet. It’s as if the poet was trying to keep him or herself out of, away from the poem.

Look at poems in the new yorker, poetry mag or apr- where is the passion?

robt creely had a cupla good poems in the carlos wms vein
language poets- armantrout? ashberry? seem febrile to me
the grt poems- say, stevens' sunday morning, or hart crane (occasionally) and dylan thomas (much) have music and meaning- who tries to grab that ring now

few write political stuff- maybe alan dugan, amiri baraka and ntozake shange and alice walker , Sent to Dr Sadisco Poetry has become available to every one and every other one is a writer- on face bk (twitter? Lol) . poetry has become an industry. But ok r Olds, Logan, Snyder, Bly, Barks channeling Rumi, Collins,, Walker, Wright (Chas), Dylan, Merwin (tad bland), Wilbur.
I prefer the European and Latin leftees- like Brecht or Felippe or Hikmet- they had something to say. Few want to honestly deal w sex, ego, money, let alone politrix here. Robinson Jeffers had it right abt the perishing republic. But then- I am a revolutionary" leftist.Don't get me wrong - i luv poets as persons
my fav- jack gilbert just died- rip

I realize sending this out I may not endear myself for future publication- these are sweeping statements- if it does not apply to you- you may excuse yrself (we will meet soon)

i just figured out that it's the dishonesty around poetry that annoys me

the fact that sex, negatives, ego, money are not discussed

Some great poets like Dickinson, Whitman, Dylan Thomas, Hart Crane rise above the honesty/dishonesty mark, but so few.

i think we humans (on a low level) want to b recognized- we seek for that-

to a degree- all who court recognition- sell out- I like the great unpublished outlaws- Rimbaud, Dickinson

reply from Michael Kohlman

I sort of disagree with your concluding statement, as I think the key is to remain true to yourself and conception of poetry and what it is, will keep you from being a sell out. I don't seem to enjoy too many organized poetry events as it is all about the poet and their air of self-importance that seems to me, to color their poetry.

If you want recognition, I definitely advise against going into poetry as those in poetry themselves often do the greatest diservice in regards to poetry and demonstrating aspects that should make it popular.

I spent the big bucks and attended a couple of Poetry conventions as was somewhat amazed at the symposium, and they had the traditional advice of, "If you want to be recognized as a poet, this is what you must do..." I found it off putting to say the least, as well making the poetry you do, a most cloistering affair and preventing others from reading and enjoying it. While they disagreed with my ideas and to some extent balked, I sort of had areas of the convention where I garnered much interest and it was suggested I do my own lectures, I mentioned I seem to push things enough with the convention people.

I was planning to do things their way in respect to submissions and waiting, but found my poetry seems to always find an audience and people who will value it. It was an element I didn't think would exist in regards to me, and now that acts as my inspiration to remain true and write as I see fit. It also takes courage and the willingness to accept the consequences.

ps fro dav e- actually (ironically?- i wld prefer a bit MORE recognition, wouldn't u know?


at 12:41 PM Anonymous Anonymous said...

itz is an amazing photog- has he gotten any recognition for same?

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