cavfancier wrote:There's some honest criticism for you everaugust. Pessy has a point though. So far, I've seen only two posts from you in this forum, one critique, where you did offer some solid, sound advice on writing, and this one, where you blanketly condemn all the writers here. So, in the interests of diplomacy, post some of your writing before jumping right to the criticism. I'll be honest with you. How about this piece, brilliant or shite?
I hope my good old a**hole holds out
60 years it's been mostly OK
Tho in Bolivia a fissure operation
survived the altiplano hospital--
a little blood, no polyps, occasionally
a small hemorrhoid
active, eager, receptive to phallus
coke bottle, candle, carrot
banana & fingers--
Now AIDS makes it shy, but still
eager to serve--
out with the dumps, in with the condom'd
orgasmic friend--
still rubbery muscular,
unashamed wide open for joy
But another 20 years who knows,
old folks got troubles everywhere--
necks, prostates, stomachs, joints--
Hope the old hole stays young
till death, relax
I have only just joined this discussion - but I just wanted to say I love that poem!!
Does cav ever disclose the author?
Edit: Ah - shouldaknown - Ginsberg.
Wow - great thread - well done everaugust!
I read and post very little here - partly because I don't feel particularly entitled to make judgments, partly cos I really dislike most of the stuff I read in the Realm, and have therefore tended to avoid original writing here, and was also turned off thoroughly by the majority of comments - which seemed very ooh aahish, when I felt there was little to ooh and aah about - but, as Soz said, little culture for anything else.
It takes a lot of energy to write constructive criticism - IF that is what writers want - too - and I think once you commit to trying to give it, you really need to spend time.
I like what Craven does in these fora - make a real comment about the piece.
Rider: I have read very little poetry/prose on A2k - and all the work here may be brilliant for all I know!
For the rest, everaugust said it for me.
To be honest, when it comes to my own writing, I say thanks for the comments, and then go back and edit. I have been considering some stuff for publication, and have included "edit" in the title, if it has been posted here before. I would certainly accept some proper, professional criticism.
I have read some of the posts here, but due to time limits not all. I only critique the serious among us and that sparingly. If I offer praise of a poem that is technically all wrong or has some awkward words or phrases it is because I respect the effort made by the author, a person who has not indicated they strive to write on a professional level. In my own thread, spontaneous poems, the works are not expected to be polished and professional, since they are raw spontaneous material.
edgarblythe wrote:I have read some of the posts here, but due to time limits not all. I only critique the serious among us and that sparingly. If I offer praise of a poem that is technically all wrong or has some awkward words or phrases it is because I respect the effort made by the author, a person who has not indicated they strive to write on a professional level. In my own thread, spontaneous poems, the works are not expected to be polished and professional, since they are raw spontaneous material.
...and a wonderful poet's workshop to air out rough drafts.
Okay....
In the spirit of open criticism, and since I am imploring you to critique more honestly, I must put myself on the line and present a poem of my own.
And in the spirit of Ginsberg (my favorite poet) - here is a poem I wrote for him when I was in University last year.
Please don't tell me it's good. I know it's good (arrogance to some, confidence to others). Please critique honestly and heartlessly. I have a thick skin, so don't worry about my toes.
Dear Allen
Drum for me, Allen, in spaces as big as a country,
capture the vibrations of your words, dripping
as they take flight. A cat-wet caterpillar
stretching from its cocoon, lead me
upwards and out.
I am certain in the stage of this, a parcel of
eye moments leading to Godhood; how trains
have begun travelling through my arteries. Give it one-way,
a lethal dose.
Why do I look for you in the Paris of today, watching
each dark haired Jew wandering along the riverbank, wondering
if you will turn and spot me? I know that poetry and hear
that voice brushing against my bolted teeth.
I need your mouth to form a revolution of tongues, to bring back
all that was lost with the death of words. Allen,
let me lick your poetry,
let me **** your language, turn it over and
**** it again, leave it gasping on the yellow-
stained mattress, gripping the damp sheets, mouth open,
ready to speak in spasms.
Let it light a cigarette and blow its sacred smoke out
into hallways that are full; smells of Russian cooking,
marijuana, old sex.
Drum for me Allen, in syllables that fracture the
bones of old women, quake Frisco into a
gridless orgy. In all spaces of form, Allen,
let me walk in your bearded bones.
So that's it. So critics, do your worst!! I am going to bed now, and when I wake up, I hope that you all will have abandoned your niceness, your tenderness and will have become vicious saints in the crusade for true art.
Thank you all for this opportunity.
'Night
everaugust wrote:Okay....
In the spirit of open criticism, and since I am imploring you to critique more honestly, I must put myself on the line and present a poem of my own.
And in the spirit of Ginsberg (my favorite poet) - here is a poem I wrote for him when I was in University last year.
Please don't tell me it's good. I know it's good (arrogance to some, confidence to others). Please critique honestly and heartlessly. I have a thick skin, so don't worry about my toes.
Dear Allen
Drum for me, Allen, in spaces as big as a country,
capture the vibrations of your words, dripping
as they take flight. A cat-wet caterpillar
stretching from its cocoon, lead me
upwards and out.
I am certain in the stage of this, a parcel of
eye moments leading to Godhood; how trains
have begun travelling through my arteries. Give it one-way,
a lethal dose.
Why do I look for you in the Paris of today, watching
each dark haired Jew wandering along the riverbank, wondering
if you will turn and spot me? I know that poetry and hear
that voice brushing against my bolted teeth.
I need your mouth to form a revolution of tongues, to bring back
all that was lost with the death of words. Allen,
let me lick your poetry,
let me **** your language, turn it over and
**** it again, leave it gasping on the yellow-
stained mattress, gripping the damp sheets, mouth open,
ready to speak in spasms.
Let it light a cigarette and blow its sacred smoke out
into hallways that are full; smells of Russian cooking,
marijuana, old sex.
Drum for me Allen, in syllables that fracture the
bones of old women, quake Frisco into a
gridless orgy. In all spaces of form, Allen,
let me walk in your bearded bones.
So that's it. So critics, do your worst!! I am going to bed now, and when I wake up, I hope that you all will have abandoned your niceness, your tenderness and will have become vicious saints in the crusade for true art.
Thank you all for this opportunity.
'Night
Okay, I'll be honest. I had similar thoughts when I met Ginsberg (I have the date now, it was 1988). He was an extremely charismatic presence, not to mention, a great poet.
I think your piece is incredibly faithful to Ginsberg, but rather derivative of his style as well. It's an attractive thing to fall into, but ultimately, you do need to break from what your idols have written, and incorporate their influence into a style unique to you. Finding a personal voice, while absorbing what you love about your favourite poets work is perhaps the hardest thing a writer has to do.
I think 'arteries' is a bit awkward, but maybe you thought 'veins' was too cliche? Anyway, in terms of the 'lethal dose' reference, it always goes through the veins, not the arteries.
This was my tribute to beat poetry, and jazz, everaugust. Feel free, I also have thick skin:
ON THE JAZZ: POETIC SUITE IN 6 MOVEMENTS
I. JAMMING
Guitar in hand, I jam.
In free-form musical verse
my memories live and become whole.
I remember
jamming with junkies and drinkers,
deep thinkers all,
raggedly aloof,
kings of strings and sundry things.
I jam to an ocean breeze
and a calypso beat.
I take a seat
beside a leathery bluesman,
and shout out his pain
in pentatonic glory.
As the music plays,
the dance begins,
and I remember.
I dance between the flurrying fists
of schoolyard bullies,
with a smile on my face
and diplomacy on my mind.
I dance to the rhythm
of a man crying for loss of love,
and coax an awkward waltz
from his tortured soul.
I dance to make allies
out of enemies.
I dance around a world in limbo.
I dance so that I never forget
the nature of the heart,
the drum-taps of life,
all the while
holding my guitar,
strumming out the stories.
Sound and fury,
beauty and pain.
I stand upon a mountaintop and play,
and all of it comes back to me
in echoes.
II. THE HUNCHBACK AND THE HORN
The wind weeps and bends
with the weight of sorrow
emanating from the bell
of a battered saxophone
deftly handled
by a shadowy hunchback.
Tears flow down his weathered cheeks
to be transformed
into sound sublime.
The slaves of urban souls
are set free, and they sing,
bleating for the battered child,
moaning for the mothers abandoned and abused,
honking for the hardened hearts of whores,
droning in Dorian for the darkness
of the downtrodden, the drug addicts and their demons,
praying in polyrhythm for the passing
of the endless, poisonous night.
In silhouette, against the moon,
the hunchback and the horn seem the same,
two question marks in unison
pasted across the heavens.
III. INTERMEZZO
Velvet-pawed, the pianist
cautiously caresses the keys,
black and white,
reflecting the odd, fleeting calm
of the city at dusk.
IV. RIM SHOT SNARE
Tappety-tap, rat-a-tat-tat,
staccato Krupa thunder
keeps ricochet time
with the gunfire in the streets.
Tappety-tap, rat-a-tat-tat,
caught in the crosshairs
of a rim shot snare.
Boom boom boom, the bass drum
groans a backbeat called hope
like a howitzer, beating back the bleak,
banal yoke of entropy.
Swish, clash, the cymbals
ring melodious metallic
through the fabric of time,
the blacksmiths hammer,
the rumbling gears of industry,
the hum of automation,
the steady breeze of labour,
the whine and buzz of failing fluorescent,
the fiber optic messages tripping across
the waves, brushed gently
into the air above.
The drums capture all
in the crosshairs of a rim shot snare.
V. REQUIEM
Play, piper, play a mournful air
in a solemn modal key
for all our fallen heroes.
Play for them piper,
that their souls may rise upwards
on the gossamer feathers
of dreams diverted, declined, deserted.
Pipe with burning breaths of fire,
and lift the raging red that stains
the waters, the plains, the desert sands,
all our hands, the lives interrupted.
Play on, piper, in sonorous, sinewy tones,
anchored by the pipes constant drone,
lest we forget the lost ones
caught up in a silent, smoky scream,
the never ending hopscotch
of a pipe dream.
VI. RENAISSANCE (Epilogue)
A luted minstrel walks
fleet-footed through the carnage
playing a myxolydian melody
called ?'Fortuna'.
Ancient riffs reach for the sun
to be recast in gold overwhelming.
Blinded, hypnotized,
the rats converge
and shuffle towards the light,
lost in visions of discarded treasures
found only in the trash.
Cav, everaugust--
I hear echoes of Walt Whitman.
Oh, that's interesting!
I wonder how it would work if you took out the "Allen"s, made it more generally a bearded poet.
(I have to beg off of this one for reasons of taste -- I don't like Allen Ginsburg for an ignoble reason I won't go into...)
Hey thank you for those who responded. It's a relief for my stuff to been seen by other eyes.
Cav, thank you for your criticism!! I agree, the "arteries" line is pretty awkward...and I might get rid of it completely, and put the others in that grouping in parenthesis. It's funny how lines that you have just a tiny hesitation about not working are the ones that others pick up on as well.
I'm also glad that it's true to Ginsberg's personality...and that coming from Cav who actually met the bard. And while I hope some of his style comes through - in a elegaic sort of way, I don't think it permeates any of my other work.
Cav, for the most part, I think the idea of your poem is great (I'm off to work soon, so I couldn't read it in as much detail as I would have liked) but I think generally it needs to be tightened. You could combine images instead of laying them out side by side. Personally, I think you could paint a stronger picture with less language. The best parts of poems are when we have this incredible image in our heads, and we look down to the page, and it's only been done by a few words.
So, maybe just for excercise sake, see if you could pare your poem down to two sections. Keep just the meat. There's no harm in playing around.
Myself, for a poem that I thought was finished, I guess I have work to do!!! (I am only 23 though).
I'm rather busy these days, so to all those who post, I really appreciate it and I will try and respond as soon as possible.
ever, welcome to a2k. You brought a positive message with your entrance.
Thanks everaugust. I find myself better with shorter pieces. I'll post some here later.
Actually, I'll post one now, that I'm proud of, and has been well-praised by published writers. Let me know what you think when you wake up everaugust
. I think this will turn out to be a great thread.
SEMICOLON
Today, I saw a semicolon,
interspersed between my question
and your pause.
Was this a separation
of an independent clause
different from mine?
Strong comma indeed,
dividing us in thought.
At least it was no full stop,
with its sad echo of finality,
just a pause,
long and dreary,
carrying with it the hope
of continuance.
Heh, heh, Cav, you've finally admitted in poetry what we've all felt and kept to ourselves.
Re: Why is Nobody Honest Here?!?
everaugust wrote:I don't mean to be a downer to aspiring artists. Art must start somewhere, but most everything written in the first few poetic attempts will be garbage (artistically at least).
Hey I would like to know what you think about my poem! I called a "a poem about a murder"
I want to hear you HONEST opinion!
thansk!
blubber...
Not your fault, jessie, side-effect of the death of someone whose posts are scattered all over A2K -- 21,497 of 'em -- and whose posts therefore come up every now and then when a dormant topic is revived and re-smack us over the head with the fact that he won't be posting any more.
Picturing cav and Ginsberg together...
