Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Can someone's politics ever fully be separated from their poetry?
Perhaps never entirely.

I think about the unnecessary horrific tragedy unfolding in the Middle East, born out of the worst imaginable mutation of arrogance, deception and greed, and then I consider those people who openly support the war and I find that their words no longer look the same to me. They may write of empathy or charity, but it ceases to have any real meaning....

Ultimately, I suppose I must break this cycle, or transcend it, like any good Buddhist might teach, but that seething anger has never really gone away. It still surfaces....

I think it's impossible to separate life from politics from poetry

your poetry, if it's real poetry, will express who you are

here is an example of poetry expressing who the writer is, in this case the writer is shallow and banal

----

Honeymoon Poem

A honeymoon at last, to get away from it all
My assistant Fe gave me the call.

I remember it well, as she was smilin'
She said it was called Turtle Island.

I packed my bags light and quick,
Then grabbed my pink dress & favorite lipstick.

We hopped on a plane and took our flight
I slept really well, all through the night.

As we arrive, I turn and look out the door,
People are greeting us right at the shore.

A meal, a shower and some ice cream
Then I threw my man down, you know what I mean!

Magical nights filled with stars
Silence is golden, no running cars.

Private dinners, romantic fires
Little piece of heaven, whatever your heart desires.

Friendly "hellos" and never goodbyes
When you're having fun, oh, how time flies!

As we sit and prepare to make our part
I thank you, Turtle Island, with all my heart!

~ Britney Spears

Damn that Britney is one profound Sagittarius, eh?

She obviously is connected to politics - the politics of wealth, which disguises the hopelessness and violence of war in our world.

LR:


. . .I'll see your Britney ( pauses, rakes a few more chips in front of him . . .heaps them up, then shoves them into the pot . . .)

and raise you a MCKUEN!


(paste)


I ALWAYS KNEW

I always knew
that you would find me,
no clock needed to remind
me that it would happen.
I planned on it, worked it out
hid in plain sight every day
knowing you would pass,
that way or this, come along,
go by, pause in moving to
here or somewhere; near or
far it did not matter. You
would arrive.

It kept the heart
alive and thriving in the clatter
of times' travel to know
that you would turn and see me
then not turn away.You here
or coming, unraveling the puzzle,
kept me whole and safe
and driving on toward this day.

When the evenings, like forever,
started fleeting, going fast
I could see you at some distance
disappearing in the mist.
In the mass of fondled faces
one imagines in a lifetime
yours was there just out of grasp.

As you fluttered in my future,
fled throughout my lifelong past
I expected every spring to bring you
to my arms, to my side. When
the autumns started coming thick
and firm and fast, I never once
gave up believing you'd arrive
with winters passing, you would
be here as the moon fell.

As the sun rose we would clasp
hands at first, then bodies closing
up that awful gap that life without
a life long partner leaves between
the noon and night line. Did I
falter in my faith? Once or twice
perhaps, but never long enough
to leave you languishing in some
dream that wasn't mine. Because
I always knew that you would
find me, I never sent out distress
signals, never tapped out SOS.

I was blessed
with growing knowledge, something
whispered do not worry, it will
happen, it's been planned. Nothing
here is happenstance. Do not hurry.
Do not pause to catch your breath.
So it was I always knew

Now and then I leapt to heaven
on another's stroke or kiss, lent
to me to keep me going in this
sure direction. Afterward the same
affection that I saved, assigned to you
only grew. I always knew that you
would find me and so I did not
bother scrawling each and every
new address on cloud or curb stone.
Why? I was waiting, you knew the rest.

A nocturne for The King of Naples,
A serenade or two for those who
got me through some fearful midnights.
Sonatas for some faces time erases but
does not forget. A double wind concerto
for the wind itself; it could have blown
me anywhere, but wouldn't, didn't. I
dropped some songs along the way in
laps of strangers, even laps I knew. But
this music you see spread around you
these notes and half notes, planted long
ago, that grew and grew was/were saved,
because I always knew that you would
find me and help me with the harvest.

The strongholds, the havens that
proved weak and wanting, lessons
learned, prizes earned, not always
given. Paths I paved, paths unpaved.
The rest of what I have to offer, little
things this life's amassed; for you,
for you, it was for you I saved
the best for last.



--Rod McKuen


( from "Unpublished Poems")

arghhhhhhhhhh

are you two sure you didn't get these poems from http://www.daypoems.net/ ?

or poetry.com?

or.... dare i say...

nope, better not... lol

I am a prose hack and no poet, but I enjoy reading some poetry from time to time. This is a poem by Brecht, which starts from where politics fails and is as apt a description of LA now as it was 50 years ago.


"Thinking of Hell"

Thinking of Hell, I remember
My brother Shelley found it was a place
Much like London. While I
Who live in Los Angeles and not in London
Find, on thinking of Hell, that it must be
Even more like L.A.
In Hell too there are, no doubt,
These luxurious gardens
with flowers big as trees
Which wither at once
if not furnished with very expensive water.
And fruit stalls with great piles of fruit
Though with no smell or taste
And endless processions of cats
Lighter than their own shadows
Faster than mad thoughts.
And gleaming vehicles in which
Jolly people coming from nowhere
Are going nowhere.
And houses built for happy people
Stand empty even when lived in.
In Hell the houses too are not all ugly
But the fear of being thrown out on the street
Plagues tenants of the villas
No less than the squatters in shanty towns.

Dear Doreen:


I got my Roddie--- not from "Listen to the Lukewarm" ( as my graduate school pals always called it . . .)

but from this site:


http://www.mckuen.com/welcome.htm


Make sure to click on this link. It contains a personal message from Mr. McKuen to "All His Friends Out There in the World . . ."


--Z

damn Z

I think I'm gonna have to fold here

I sat for the past ten minutes trying to come up with a worse poet than McKuen

but I couldn't do it.

I went through Henry Gibson
then I thought about posting Invictus
or In Flanders Fields
maybe something by Gibran or Rani
hmmmm..".I think that I shall never see..."..no, I can't go there.

but nothing quite matches McKuen for poetic low-ball
the only way I could beat a McKuen would be with a pair (I'm talking about the fruit...oh, yeah, that's pear)


we should start a thread
Post the Lousiest Poetry Known To Man

Dear mnaz:


Here's a site all poets ( including you) ought to bookmark:



http://www.poetsagainstthewar.org/


It contains, not just links to poems and poets and Sam Hamill's fine manifesto, but nice things such as:

The Axis of Evil Cookbook

http://www.nthposition.com/axisofevil.php


( the "nth position" review . . .)



--Z

peresozo- i love Brecht, especially his music... i was in the "three penny opera" once.... good memory

zlatko- i believe you... i'll pass on clicking on the link .... good old rod... one of America's Most Popular Poets. What makes a poet popular?

LR- no, I wasn't referring to you. The other Rod.

heh

Come on--There's far worse poets than McKuen. Emily Dickinson for instance or Sharon Olds. Is McKuen's poetry really worse than TS Eliot's? You think I joke, but Eliots poetry--with a few exceptions-- is about the most inept, stilted, ugly crime against English language to be found. And lots of the beat vomitings were not so great either. For that matter I ll agree with A. Bierce in his detestation of the Great Gaseous One Walt Whitman, about 95% dreck....

now that you mention it, P, Eliot was a pretty abysmal poet

that's why his name is an anagram for toilets

and Lrod is an anagram for Lord

(cough, cough)

and doreen---

If you shout out Rod McKuen's name
just one more time while you are in your ecstacy
I'm leaving you
(or at least I won't write you any more cornball love poetry)

There ought to be like support groups for people who have been required to study the Wasteland; rehab for those who have had to endure some smarmy English Professor shoving Eliot's bizarre crypto-fascist square ragtime cubism down one's throat....

I learned to respect Russell a great deal after discovering that Uncle Bertie cuckolded that freaky bank clerk-priest...but Viv was a total nutcase as well and fascist sympathizer.

In fact thats how ya make it in the English biz now: find some fascists to sympathize with. At least Ezra could write a bit.

peresozo- I love TS Eliot and Sharon Olds and Whitman... Actually, someone once compared my writing with Sharon Olds. I was flattered and honored. But hey, what do I know? Maybe it was an insult, after all. LOL!