poetry readings

So, on my commute into work this morn, a poem by Charles Bukowski was featured in the daily almanac I listen to. And I enjoyed it. Pithy, no bullshit.

poetry readings

poetry readings have to be some of the saddest
damned things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can't find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.

I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.

if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:

a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a dirty joke

anything
anything
but
these.

I like his (characteristic) shunning of academia, preferring those who live life raw, face to face, and not just talk about it, turn it over to the intellect. Preferring, perhaps, those who are living hard--too hard to dream, to compose.


I haven't read him in awhile. I think I should get to throwing my eyeballs on something of his...

"I am Francis"

A great poem by that scoundrel poet, François Villon, of the 15th century.

The context this poem was written under is pretty remarkable. He was convicted of murdering a priest in a street brawl. He would eventually receive a royal pardon; however, he was three times in jail under a death sentence. This poem was written in 1462 in a Paris jail cell while Villon awaited execution. Literally, gallows humor.

Je Suis Françoys Je suis Françoys dont il me poise Né de Paris emprè Pontoise Et de la corde d'une toise Sçaura mon col que mon cul poise

I am Francis Francis by name, France's by birth (I've never had much luck on earth), At Paris first I op'd my eyes (It is a hamlet near Pointoise); And soon my neck, to end the farce, Must learn how heavy is my arse.

Translation by Norman Cameron.

"Always, all slow, all slowly"

I've had several conversations with New Yorkers (born and raised, some solidly rooted expats from around the country) about life in NYC. With these thoughts always on my mind, I was listening to Feist sing "Tout Doucement" recently. I looked up the original, sung in French by Blossom Dearie. Becoming now fully immersed in the hustle and bustle in NYC, I found the song apropos.

Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement Comme ça La vie c'est épatant Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement Comme ça La vie je la comprends N'allez jamais trop vite Vous avez tout le temps Attention à la dynamite Prenez garde aux volcans A ces jeunes énervés Qui ne savent pas aller Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement Comme ça En flânant gentiment N'allez jamais trop vite En aimant simplement Pour avoir de la réussite Soyez très très prudent L'amour alors viendra Se blottir dans vos bras Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement Comme ça En flânant gentiment En souriant gentiment En flânant gentiment Tout doucement

All slow, all slow, all slowly Always, all slow, all slowly This way Life is amazing. All slow, all slow, all slowly Always, all slow, all slowly This way Life, I understand it. Never go too fast You got all the time you need Beware of the dynamite Take care of volcanos Of those young nervous ones Who don't know how to go All slow, all slow, all slowly Always, all slow, all slowly This way Strolling prettily Never go too fast Loving simply To get success Be very very prudent (cautious) Love will then come And snuggle up in your arms All slow, all slow, all slowly Always, all slow, all slowly This way Strolling prettily Smiling prettily Strolling prettily All slowly

Enivrez-Vous...To the marrow...Carpe Diem...

...To the lees...and so on... Many ways to say, Be passionate.

I first eyed this poem back in college, when I was tickled by the French Symbolists and I was brimming with idealism--ethical idealism: the Good Life, how life should be lived, and still forming the ethos by which I would live the rest of my days. I scrawled it across the back of my desk chair with Wite-Out. I liked it a lot. I guess to me it meant, Do the things you love, and love the things you do. Do them well. Push yourself further.

Charles Baudelaire wrote it. And I suppose I've generally held a disposition in congruence with that mantra. "Blow as deep you want to blow," wrote Kerouac. I like that one too.

I'm new to the blogosphere, so I suppose this is as good place to start as any:

Enivrez-Vous Il faut être toujours ivre. Tout est là; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve. Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, á votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous. Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuee ou disparue, demandez au vent, á la vague, á l'étoile, á l'oiseau, á l'horloge, á tout ce qui fuit, á tout ce qui gémit, á tout ce qui roule, á tout ce qui chante, á tout ce qui parle, demendez quelle heure il est, et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront: "Il est l'heure de s'enivrer! Pour n'être pas les esclaves martyrisées du Temps, enivrez-vous; enivrez-vous sans cesse! De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, á votre guise."

Be Drunk Be drunk, always. Nothing else matters; this is our sole concern. To ease the pain as Time's dread burden weighs down upon your shoulders and crushes you to earth, you must be drunk without respite. Drunk with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please. But be drunk. And if sometimes, on the steps of palaces, on the green grass in a ditch, in the dreary solitude of your room, you should wake and find your drunkenness half over or fully gone, ask of wind or wave, of star or bird or clock, ask of all that flies, of all that sighs, moves, sings, or speaks, ask them what time it is; and wind, wave, star, bird, or clock will answer: "It is time to be drunk! To throw off the chains and martyrdom of time, be drunk; be drunk eternally! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please."

Translation on the right is by William M. Davis, and it's the best I've seen.

That all said, I feel the need to write and record, set myself to the task of documenting life as I know it.

Why a blog, why public with this? Well, I've thought about this for some time. What's the point of a personal blog, anyway? Well, at the very least it keeps me going. If I have something to maintain, other than a personal journal, perhaps it will keep me focused and punctual, like college courses did. Plus, it's always fun to share, even if it is with strangers--real or imaginary. There's a certain satisfaction that comes with making your thoughts and experiences public. Plus, blogging offers a pretty nice platform for digitally organizing said thoughts and experiences. So what the hell, right?

Onward!


Update (9-9-08)

This helps: