wna-need-poetry?

[Axanderdeath]

(this poem is writen because poetry is getting boring--it all sounds the same--it all sounds like this.)





Is this really what
people like to read
is this what sells
it is indeed

lame rhythm and rhyme
to time
fictitiously sublime
the world is so blind

give me a stick
a bat
a fucking twig
to beat the dirt
to make better work
to kill the worms
to rock and storm
to blast and blister and scare and scar
fuck to

is this what you
want
is this what you
crave

a slave to form
to shit
to kife
slight, perhaps, but truth elapse

too easy
too simply
too guarded
too done
too calculated
too educated
too self proclaimed immaculate
your no fucking prodigy

but this is what the world wants
a little sweet rhyming jaunt
but I taunt
the taunting
terrible
toothless
rootless
rhyming
maggots, fagots
and bundles of wood--

because this is what you want...


Geoff Parsons

[stilltrucking]

This poem by Anne Sexton meant a lot to me. But that was thirty years ago.

I met her in the Ship Wreck Bar in Revere Beach in 1974
She was looking for a revenge fuck
And I got lucky.

But professor Kate tells me it is a shit poem. I suppose Ricky Nelson was right, if you can't please everyone, you might as well please yourself. She is just some old lady to you. But to me she is beautiful.

· When Bad Poems Happen to Good Poets:
The Dreck of the Greats Kate Bernadette

Featured Poet: Anne Sexton
When I began writing poetry in the early 1970’s Anne Sexton was a literary star. Her star went out almost as soon as I’d discovered her work, though; she committed suicide at the age of 44 in 1973. Young literary women like myself went into mourning, for we adored Anne’s poetry. She had brought certain “women’s subjects” to the fore--motherhood, love affairs, female anatomy—and also wrote revealingly about her breakdowns and her spiritual quests. At some point, I will feature Anne Sexton in my Lectio.

Her early work was metrically tight; later her style became looser and more conversational. Overly clever phrasings and fanciful similes and metaphors began to run rampant. “Rampant” is as good a description as any for this poet’s exuberant excesses.

Anne Sexton believed her “God” poems would make her reputation. True or not, this month’s poem is one that might unmake it. I’m all for a little irreverence in poetry, even heresy. But this poem, envisioning the baby Jesus at Mary’s breast, seems merely inane, not to mention theologically clueless. To be fair, mockery is the intention in this poem and others in her “Jesus Papers.” But mockery without trenchancy is childish stuff.


Jesus Suckles
Mary, your great
white apples make me glad.
I feel your heart work its
machine and I doze like a fly.
I cough like a bird on its worm.
I’m a jelly-baby and you’re my wife.
You’re a rock and I the fringy algae.
You’re a lily and I’m the bee that gets inside.
I close my eyes and suck you in like a fire.
I grow. I grow. I’m fattening out.
I’m a kid in a rowboat and you’re the sea,
the salt, you’re every fish of importance.

No. No.
All lies.
I am small
and you hold me.
You give me milk
and we are the same
and I am glad.

No. No.
All lies.
I am a truck. I run everything.
I own you.

http://katebenedict.com/BadSexton.htm

[Artguy]

Howl still speaks to me.......

[Dave The Dov]

Carl Sandburg's "The Fog"!!!!
_________________
Mercedes Benz CLK GTR

[stilltrucking]

The Fog was probably the first poem I really listened too.

That was long before I read the Anne Sexton poem.

I am still a long way from being bored with poetry Geoff.

I am just not ambitious enough
maybe.

Probably just too lazy to try and get my writing to buy baby a new pair of shoes, but I hope you can make it work for you. Cause i think it is nice work if you can get it,

"but if I had to please everybody I would rather drive a truck."


sounds like a phunkadelic song
sounds like a nice poem to me

maggots, fagots
and bundles of wood--

FlooP Bloop and GooP

sometimes poetry is not as random as I think.
I suppose that is why I am always posting these random text boxes
and saying sorry about the ramble

does this sound like poetry
rambling melancholy wandering

keep on writting