.
Richard
I love this too, however I also love knowing that John B. or say Miriam Waddington, or like hundreds of others wrote hers doing social work, and he wrote Dream Songs while being a nomadic prof. There is no quarrel among poets in my view. Or that one's a janitor, and the other a bus driver (the honeymooners as pop poetry? ). Each one struggles. I have no illusions about that , the struggle is uneven. I am a struggle of language desire and money. So then we shall have a great communistic flow of desire and language, the poetry of change.
"and but so, I love knowing that poet X works as a janitor, or has taught freshman comp. the many varied working lives of writing, and not one stuck in academe because that is what is expected of writers.. "
No _?
remember the word is the poem you wrote
a thought for her to think as she holds it in her hand
a crooked pilaster a wooden bowl a jewel of substance
the transcendent singer of her heart not a coat
for summer and winter but my walking through memory and
pain which makes the face's difference a vowel seperate
standing a part solitary in its quietness not noticing
the things you recalled when strolling and parked you
picked the things which meant the most to earth and other poets
radical sun worker across Nineveh and sky betweeen the lassoed
letter S that occured at each dot in the magnificent
earth world, the magnificent dead word back to life,
leap back like Christ might out of the grave,
Now wouldn't that be a hope, Mister proxy in the middling
earth
A coat not a jacket where loves are gentled
a verb to hum your hallowing in not penalted
by the racket
I see her many times, her forms were manifold
still I could not reach, and were these eyes mine
were they the ones to undo a woman's cold
body repelling back suitors and eyes nine
and ten and twenty times a day saddled with hate?
I don't know dear Doctor I am not the one to know
proles: a hasty note
who said if there is no god man must need to invent one?
coming from the proletariat myself my concern is not at the division of labor and those who profit mightily from labor, but a kind of professionalism of reading/writing that exists now. po-biz, its forms of bureaucracy created by grant committees, prizes, book contests etc. have infected the call to writing/reading. because I do think the call, the need, not simply the desire, but the need to write/read is a religious manifestation.
but one without any gods, because we create it as we move thru our living in the art. tho we pray, in our readings, our studies, our writings everyday we live and think. a secular religion, a contradiction indeed, but so much of our lives, every aspect of our lives I'd hazard to say, contradicts every other aspect of our lives. Je est une autre . .
and but so, I love knowing that poet X works as a janitor, or has taught freshman comp. the many varied working lives of writing, and not one stuck in academe because that is what is expected of writers.
reading/writing, for me, is not about suffering, tho the writer who ignores human suffering, anguish, horror, whether in writing or living, is naive at best or at worst pretty seriously silly. writing/reading affords me the greatest pleasures I know. as a human being. etc. etc. it is one of the forces that drives the green fuse thru the flower.
coming from the proletariat myself my concern is not at the division of labor and those who profit mightily from labor, but a kind of professionalism of reading/writing that exists now. po-biz, its forms of bureaucracy created by grant committees, prizes, book contests etc. have infected the call to writing/reading. because I do think the call, the need, not simply the desire, but the need to write/read is a religious manifestation.
but one without any gods, because we create it as we move thru our living in the art. tho we pray, in our readings, our studies, our writings everyday we live and think. a secular religion, a contradiction indeed, but so much of our lives, every aspect of our lives I'd hazard to say, contradicts every other aspect of our lives. Je est une autre . .
and but so, I love knowing that poet X works as a janitor, or has taught freshman comp. the many varied working lives of writing, and not one stuck in academe because that is what is expected of writers.
reading/writing, for me, is not about suffering, tho the writer who ignores human suffering, anguish, horror, whether in writing or living, is naive at best or at worst pretty seriously silly. writing/reading affords me the greatest pleasures I know. as a human being. etc. etc. it is one of the forces that drives the green fuse thru the flower.
poetics of practice
should we start with the notion that there are no careers? in our writing/reading/living. so then what is the job of a poet contrasted with the work of a poet.
1) job: something to be done, often endured, to earn our daily bread.
2) work: processes of reading/writing without prospects of financial gain, that it be mostly obsession, about the work.
that the work if we are lucky becomes a life. living is not a job. sweeping floors, programming computers, teaching, factory work, etc. are what we do to support our lives. and these sources of funding re: jobs are not obsessions, are not careers. jobs only allow us marginal freedoms to engage in the work of poetry for they allow us to pay bills, eat, buy books etc. the limits of jobs are the limits placed on our time. limited time can also be an obsession for poetry. but worry over time is not a career even if it may cost a few grey hairs.
neither would we define our obsessions as careers. so when we talk about poetry we are engaged in the struggles of living each in our unique fashions.
there are no careers, in poetry and in life. we all must do some type of job for us to live. the garrett is overrated. obsessions do not equal starvation.
let us talk about how poetry transforms the life rather than how life transforms poetry. how our reading/writing changes how we sweep floors .
1) job: something to be done, often endured, to earn our daily bread.
2) work: processes of reading/writing without prospects of financial gain, that it be mostly obsession, about the work.
that the work if we are lucky becomes a life. living is not a job. sweeping floors, programming computers, teaching, factory work, etc. are what we do to support our lives. and these sources of funding re: jobs are not obsessions, are not careers. jobs only allow us marginal freedoms to engage in the work of poetry for they allow us to pay bills, eat, buy books etc. the limits of jobs are the limits placed on our time. limited time can also be an obsession for poetry. but worry over time is not a career even if it may cost a few grey hairs.
neither would we define our obsessions as careers. so when we talk about poetry we are engaged in the struggles of living each in our unique fashions.
there are no careers, in poetry and in life. we all must do some type of job for us to live. the garrett is overrated. obsessions do not equal starvation.
let us talk about how poetry transforms the life rather than how life transforms poetry. how our reading/writing changes how we sweep floors .
'earning' yer keep 'making bread' scratch
Ought poets to be exclusive intheir capacity to earn a living? what does it mean to earn a living for anyone who is doing poetry? what is poetry if it is not a way of life?
In fact, poetry is always a way __ I say a way meaning a way in the world, a way of being, of becoming from one day to the next.
Is our energy to be sucked up into the daily grind, or is the daily grind the very stuff we write about?
How much is our energy created by the day to day? If poetry is a way, and therefore a way of life, how many ways of life are there, that one can live and fantazize without giving way to a treachery of one's soul?
So what is poetics in terms of the practice of daily life, what some call praxis, and this is just the start of a series of ideas...
In fact, poetry is always a way __ I say a way meaning a way in the world, a way of being, of becoming from one day to the next.
Is our energy to be sucked up into the daily grind, or is the daily grind the very stuff we write about?
How much is our energy created by the day to day? If poetry is a way, and therefore a way of life, how many ways of life are there, that one can live and fantazize without giving way to a treachery of one's soul?
So what is poetics in terms of the practice of daily life, what some call praxis, and this is just the start of a series of ideas...
'naturally'
his m'other Oedipus Jocasta defies
yer devil-derring Duffy to
refictionalize
her cast-iron selves
to botch another
sylvan instant
froward and beckward
as any swan goose would!
impure fictions
fabricate the Numen of ApOsTrOpHe
welcome the bidden self
---
this the sister ess of MissyRimbaud saith.
thy garden grows a path
thy garden shows a n'ath
so place yer readon
between the catch
some such lover has borne his math
What?
it's a berry!!
a berry!!
Aye! me!
a berry me boy
Hop along Cassidy
with his rude wooden horse
aNd BisHop's stiff staFf
not certainly a Falstaff
to beach her false gaffs
yer devil-derring Duffy to
refictionalize
her cast-iron selves
to botch another
sylvan instant
froward and beckward
as any swan goose would!
impure fictions
fabricate the Numen of ApOsTrOpHe
welcome the bidden self
---
this the sister ess of MissyRimbaud saith.
thy garden grows a path
thy garden shows a n'ath
so place yer readon
between the catch
some such lover has borne his math
What?
it's a berry!!
a berry!!
Aye! me!
a berry me boy
Hop along Cassidy
with his rude wooden horse
aNd BisHop's stiff staFf
not certainly a Falstaff
to beach her false gaffs
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