Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

one lousy life is not long enough
one lousy life is too long
I can't read all the books
and i can never hear all the music
there is all that Shakespeare
that I haven't wrapped my self around
all the Duke Ellington i never listened to
there's some poetry I need to hang out with
some more that I need to write myself
In every poem I write now I try to leave
some crumbs through the maze
it's not just an imagistic labyrinth
it's a twisting turning object that exists
for the heck of it, inside the words
that dance around themselves within a language

that is no language but all language
it takes you down a strange road into itself
there is never enough time to take this road
and there is too much time to go around
I don't want to write about writing

I want to write the writing, before its too late
I want to hear the words as I put them down
I want to hear all those endless diatribes by all the Hamlets
I want to hear Duke Ellington compose, "don't mean a thing

if it don't got that swing" and I want do know what he means
because if I don't got that swing, then I don't mean a thing
I need to find my own swing with in the groove, I got to move
at my own pace, I don't want to win at no rat race
it don't mean a thing, if I can't swing like Babe Ruth at the truth

man, I have been here too long if I still understand nostalgia
as some kind of longing to have that childhood when a home run
meant everything, and people still believed we were the good guys
no I want to be here when jazz became the bebop revolution
and cool cats sat around their cool pads and listened to The Bird
all night long, and looked up at the stars and dreamed of what it is

I still want to know what it is, before I know what it ain't too much
can you dig what I'm saying, I want all the really crazy stuff that is crazy
in that way that I mean it to be crazy, like words swinging in crazy
like words that have said stuff like to be cool or not to be cool
but not to be fooled by some un-hip way of saying the most profundity

it's that swing at the most impossible thing that them far out cats dig
all those super sophisticated scholars that try to tell us what he meant
and there just ain't enough days on the calender to really make us hep
to all the bummers, to know what is the question, to bebop or not to

nice spin through the that endless longing that makes us write with passion

just saw Bukowski reading some of his work ...and after all this time I never knew how he himself pronounced his name..... but in this one poem he referred to himself, so got to hear him say his name a few times

most people say.....B-you kowski

or B-oo kowski....but Mr. Bukowski said....B-uh kowski.....rhyming with duh or huh

nice to learn something new

anyway, enjoyed the ride in this one

what made boo-you-uh-kowski himself?

68degrees

What makes him him? His words / thoughts. Emphasis on "his"

this could go on for awhile, his words make him him. but what about him makes him his words? and so on. Do his thoughts make his words, or do his words make his thoughts? what comes first? So maybe then, the real question is what compels him to write poetry, or even further what compels him to write the way we does? What about him, that compels him so? Is it just the idea of poetry and writing? Does his poem, "Born into this" give us some kind of understanding of what make his poetry and novels tick? So then are we talking about life? life experience? But we all have that. If we all are unique, then do we all have something unique to say about life experience? Why do some people write poetry and others do not? What is it about poetry that some people just don't get it? And like some things in life why are some people better at writing poetry then others? Why Bukowski? Is there such a thing as "bad" poetry? Why on some so-called poetry sites do some people set themselves up as experts, and critics? Is there a better way to be a poet? Is poetry running out or rhymes? Is there a more creative way to use rhymes? And riddles? If a wood chuck could wood would a wood chuck chuck wood? Is this poetry? Is poetry running out of things to say? Are things getting more profound or less? What would Bukowski chuck out?

revolutionR

I stopped counting at 20 questions I'm not sure the internet has "helped" poetry. It has made poetry that much more accessible to the common man but it has also allowed the common man who is not a poet to think he is. Can everyone be a poet? Maybe. Can everyone play basketball? I doubt it. At least not at a high level. I think about it like this: the number of professional players in football has almost tripled (more guys on a team, more teams, etc.) since the 60's. Has this improved the game? Nope. Give more folks an opportunity though…so that's good. With today's internet and all these forums, zines, etc., etc. there are a gazllion more poets out there. Has the poetry improved? Nope. But it gives more folks opportunity though…so that's good. And in the end, what difference does it make anyway if some folks are better poets than someone else. I'm an 8 handicap golfer. I can beat many people, but I'll never be "that" good.

I'm not sure I answered any of your 20 odd questions, but I think that's one thing that poetry does for folks, good or bad…it gives them the opportunity to ask and/or answer or at least present the questions that they cannot answer for themselves. It's therapy. It's confessional. It's a drug. Some people are just better at it than other people b/c that's life.

Bukowski? He was a run of the mill poet until he decided to write what people were REALLY thinking about. And people liked it. The monkey was never on his back once he decided to just let 'er rip. Was he THAT good? Probably not. Not every poem. Not every time. But sometimes? WOW. And sometimes that all it takes.

I loved all your questions. They are one reason why you're a good writer. Are you a WOW writer? Grandma Moses didn't get going until she was in her 70's

The questions were rhetorical. I think like I write, and I write like I think.

The only way to be. At least that's what I've heard.

68degrees

I like the poem and the dialogue you have with 68 degrees too.

About Bukowski----amazing talent. What he writes seems so simple but it isn't simple. He found his voice. People have different tastes----I enjoy reading Bukowski. In some ways he may be posing, posturing, doing his act, but I don't get tired of it. I enjoy that taste of stale beer. I take a sip of his poetry and sometimes I shudder nut I still like it.

There are a lot of other poets too---vastly different voices----Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, for example---that I read and learn from and enjoy immensely.

But it is our own attempt to write----it is like trying to sing or playing guitar or a sax----it is doing----getting in rhythm with the art.

And always asking those unanswerable questions-----maybe asking ourselves, maybe asking the big empty sky. Every answer that you think you get is for a moment and subject to revision. Everything is provisional.

Enjoyed your poem and thoughts. One lousy life has got to have its music.