The Confusing Faces Of Poetry

The Many Faces of Poetry 2

I struggle with such questions as “What is poetry?” Or “Why is poetry?” I don’t HAVE to struggle; it seems like a waste of energy, except that any honest inquiry into the nature of important things is…well, important. Yesterday I read three poems in a prestigious literary magazine. They were written by a prestigious lady who is a professor at a prestigious school. I’d better take these seriously, I thought. They have the imprimatur of critical acclaim. They’re supposed to be good.

I read the three poems several times. They are contemporary poetry. They have rhythm without rhyme. They are abstract. They are boring as hell. In order to run a quality check, to ensure that it wasn’t just me, quietly going insane, I referred to some poets that I love. I read some Lorca, and then Charles Bukowski. Okay, okay, it’s not just me. The latter poets wrote great poetry. I can sense THE PERSON inside these poems. I know who, where is Bukowsky, what he’s thinking. Lorca, even translated from Spanish, had poetry full of blood, I mean “Blaaahhhdd”, okay?

globes 2

Poetry has always been the bastard child of my prose work. It’s the long prose, the novels, that challenge me. Poetry’s easy. I write a poem, like that! boom, done. A few corrections the next day. Trim it a little. I can go years without writing a poem. This month I’ve struck a seam, I’m writing poems. My poetry is ME, it penetrates to the core of myself and exposes my sense of failure, confusion, ambivalence. Sometimes it’s mystic, it’s pure celebration of what I know is GOD but I don’t want to preach.

These  poems were written in the last ten days. I got pleasure in writing them, and more pleasure reading them. The second poem is among the best I have.  It’s one of “those”.

 

It Don’t Rub Off

More and more each day

my life looks like a stage set.

Props

my green rubber key chain,

the white bowl from which

I eat Cheerios .

More and more it looks less real;

it’s nothing like I wanted, not at all.

It’s more like a joke that’s on me, the opposite

of my desires. It waits to see

if I’ll laugh. I do; I laugh. It’s so silly, wanting,

but it can’t be helped. Wanting is like breathing

or waiting

while something giant hurtles towards me

too far away to sense

but it’s coming.

And I need it.

I’m in no hurry to see through things;

they control the pace.

Who I am

is not a mistake. I came here for an exercise

a knowledge that slips through my fingers.

One day my hand will close around it.

My car is banged up

my knees hurt.

I’m poor but never broke.

My broke friends know

that I’ll pay them for work on my car

or my house.

I carry some of their Stupid for a while.

It don’t rub off.

I always think I’m injured but I’m not:

except that life is injury, an obscure pathway

through a forest full of thrilling birds

and venomous snakes.

Is this real?

Yeah, I guess so.

For now.

 

Shit

There’s shit on my shoes;

cat shit, dog shit, I hope that’s all shit.

Every step I take I risk stepping in shit:

Is this not life? There’s nothing wrong with shit.

Like bugs, we need shit, desperately

to nourish with its stink the most unlikely growth.

This poo is for you, it says, as I wipe it off my shoe

foolishly trying to keep it from my hands, then washing

again and again. How often in a day do I inwardly exclaim,

“Shit!”? More than I would admit. My mind is full of bricks, pies and purges.

Cats, dogs, owls, horses, all shit. People shit,

the universe shits on these very shoes

which I try so hard to keep clean. Many are obsessed

with the microscopic haunt of e.coli. I don’t bother to say

“Relax, we intermix with e.coli and far worse

every day, we are sturdy,

knocking off shits right and left, undaunted

by the invisible spores of imagination”. Instead I give this benediction:

“You must be crazy in whatever way you want.”

Not every disease is preventable, nor is every affliction brought on board

by the shit on our shoes. Every time you stroke the cat, the dog, the horse

your hands investigate bacteria, resist infection.

After all, shit is the most common thing in the world.



A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He hearkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography. In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders. The timing was not good.  His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression. He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy. It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience. He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California. Come visit his blogs and photo sites. www.artrosch.com and http://bit.ly/2uyxZbv


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Poetry And The Feminine Principle

The Many Faces of Poetry 2

There seem to be fewer female poets than male poets but that’s probably a sexist phenomenon. There are fewer PUBLISHED, FAMOUS lady poets, that’s all. Doing a search there are names that come to the top of the list: Mary Oliver, Jane Hirschfield, Emily Dickinson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I like to contrast the moderns with the Victorians because they make a little study in how much the world has changed. In 1850, assuming you had spectacular talent, “making it” as a poet was a matter of family connections, money and social place. The Victorians valued depth in education. Dickinson and Browning were well read in Greek Classics (in the original Greek), Milton, Shakespeare, et al. Today, attaining prominence as a poet is a matter of marketing and luck. Podcasts, platforms and persistence. Talent trails behind.

mary-oliver-hires-cropped

Mary Oliver And Friend

Mary Oliver is regarded as the English speaking world’s most beloved poet. I always think of flying geese when Oliver is mentioned. There’s a reason for that. This was the first poem I heard by Mary Oliver: Wild Geese. It’s a good example of her accessibility. Oliver celebrated nature, including human nature. She had a great eye/ear for the natural world’s subtle beauties.

Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

emily-dickinson-hires-cropped

Emily Dickinson

Now let’s turn our attention to Emily Dickinson. She was such an interesting person that I feel saddened by the brevity with which I must treat her in this essay. She was the daughter of a prominent lawyer, politician and man of civic affairs. This was Edward Dickinson. He provided a liberal and wealthy environment in which Emily could do pretty much as she pleased. She obtained a first class education at Amherst Academy and Mt. Holyoke, and cultivated friendships with the likes of Walt Whitman and Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emily is famous for her reclusive ways. When she was finished with her education she retired into a world that consisted of her bedroom and the extensive family garden. She maintained vast correspondence with the best minds of the era. She also wrote nearly 1800 poems. A year after her death the first collection of her poems was published and became a huge hit. I find her poems cryptic and timeless. Many of them are just a few lines, and, to tell you the truth, I don’t really understand some of them. I plan to read them again, and perhaps yet again. It seems that she was writing for her own pleasure. There was no thought of an audience. In this way her poems attain a great purity.

I Like to see it lap the Miles, by Emily Dickenson
I like to see it lap the Miles,  
And lick the valleys up, 
And stop to feed itself at tanks;  
And then, prodigious, step  
Around a pile of mountains, 
And, supercilious, peer  
In shanties by the sides of roads;  
And then a quarry pare  
To fit its sides, and crawl between,  
Complaining all the while
In horrid, hooting stanza;  
Then chase itself down hill  
And neigh like Boanerges;  
Then, punctual as a star,  
Stop—docile and omnipotent—
At its own stable door.
Hirschfield

Jane Hirschfield

.

It’s important to know that Jane Hirschfield is a student of Zen Buddhism. She was ordained in 2011 at The San Francisco Zen Center. Hirschfield gets irritated, however, when people try to identify her poetry as “Zen” or anything else. It’s just poetry. Winner of so many awards it gets ridiculous, Jane Hirschfield is a kind of poetry goddess of our times. She’s 65 as of today. She may be around for yet a while. Her poetry has a kind of practicality. It deals with familiar things in unfamiliar ways. Her poems are full of dogs and horses, images of man’s interaction with nature. There are musings on the dilemma of living within one’s own mind. I find such questions easy to understand. I, too, am some kind of Buddhist.

 

Rebus, by Jane Hirschfield

 

You work with what you are given,
the red clay of grief,
the black clay of stubbornness going on after.
Clay that tastes of care or carelessness,
clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.

Each thought is a life you have lived or failed to live,
each word is a dish you have eaten or left on the table.
There are honeys so bitter
no one would willingly choose to take them.
The clay takes them: honey of weariness, honey of vanity,
honey of cruelty, fear.
This rebus – slip and stubbornness,
bottom of river, my own consumed life –
when will I learn to read it
plainly, slowly, uncolored by hope or desire?
Not to understand it, only to see.

As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
Each yes, each no continues,
this one a ladder, that one an anvil or cup.

The ladder leans into its darkness.
The anvil leans into its silence.
The cup sits empty.

How can I enter this question the clay has asked?

elizabeth-barrett-browning-9228932-1-402

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Elizabeth Barrett Browning was born into an aristocratic English family and received a classical education. Getting such schooling was not a given for women of that age. Usually it depended on the father’s disposition. In Elizabeth’s case, dad was a poet and the family luxuriated in artistic pursuits. Elizabeth was educated alongside her younger brother. No feminist outrages here. The Barretts were extremely wealthy and lived within the intellectual mainstream of the Victorian era.

It all seemed so wonderful until I came to the tragic stories of the Barrett family.

Elizabeth’s brother drowned. Elizabeth came down with tuberculosis and had an accident that permanently damaged her spine. In its way this is typical of upper class Victorian suffering. They suffered extravagantly: people died young, children were scythed down by fevers, chronic brain afflictions abounded. Elizabeth spent the rest of her life on morphine, opium and other such medications. Still, she had the stubborn persistence of all artists and produced a huge body of work. This first poem, below, “How Do I Love Thee” is one of the most famous poems in the world. It is also called “Sonnet 13”. I follow it with “Sonnet 14”.

How do I love thee? or Sonnet 13, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

 

Sonnet 14, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love’s sake only. Do not say
‘I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day’—
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,—
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love’s sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.

 

Thus we have a painfully brief glimpse into the worlds of some famous lady poets. It’s a rich universe and I feel ridiculous popping these classics out on the page so casually. These women were/are great poets! Profoundly human, they deal with universal themes, the glorious quiz of life on earth. Is there a difference between the male and female poets? Are men better than women? Hell no. Somewhere there’s a planet with six genders, each with distinctive characteristics and functions. They quarrel endlessly about whether a frem is superior to a bloot and why forgles make the best musicians. It’s always the same stuff. Art. That useless but essential stuff: Art. P.S. I think the it’s the werkish who make the best Jerk n’ Jell paddle players.

 

A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He harkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography. In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders. The timing was not good.  His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression. He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy. It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience. He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California. Come visit his blogs and photo sites. www.artrosch.com and http://bit.ly/2uyxZbv

 

Want to be sure not to miss any of Art’s The Many Faces of Poetry segments? Subscribe to Writing to be Read for e-mail notifications whenever new content is posted or follow WtbR on WordPress.

 


The Many Faces of Poetry: Two Important Poets

The Many Faces of Poetry

 

I did most of my poetry reading between the ages of sixteen and twenty one. I was in love with a girl who loved poetry. Otherwise, for the next several decades I neglected poetry. It was an occasional pleasure. Lately, however, I have been rediscovering poetry. If you want to read today’s poets head for the online magazine “Across The Margin” (acrossthemargin.com). ATM publishes living poets and prose writers. I am, fortunately, online buds with the editors Michael Fisher and Chris Thompson. As curators of such a venue, they are brilliant.   They bring together some of the best writers of our times. While I’m throwing out resources, I must also mention the uber-poetry web empire PoemHunters.com

As an adolescent I was drawn to the work of Federico Garcia Lorca and Rainer Maria Rilke. Their influence yet remains with me. They occupy special seats in the Poets’ Pantheon. Lorca, who was mired in the political confusion surrounding the Spanish Civil War, was assassinated in 1936. He is now a Spanish national treasure. Extensive searches for his grave have failed to find his remains. He was thirty eight when he drew his final breath.  No one knows who murdered him.  The Fascists blame the Communists and the communists blame the Fascists.  Hey, it was Spain in the thirties.

Here is one of his poems. As a Spaniard and member of what was called “The Generation Of ’27”, he was inspired and surrounded by surrealists.

in the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear’s teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

Rainer Maria Rilke was born into a middle class family in 1875. The family was highly dysfunctional, as are the families of 99 percent of every artist in Earth’s history. Rilke had the good sense to hang out with the most illustrious artists of any age. He was, for a while, Auguste Rodin’s secretary. He lived the life of a poet during the height of the Romantic era. His life was no piece of cake. He was drafted into the Austro/Hungarian Army at the outbreak of World War One. It took two years for his influential friends to free him from possible slaughter in the trenches. He did, however, have such friends. He wrote in a variety of media, including some four hundred poems.

This is Rilke.

At The Brink Of Night

My room and this distance,
awake upon the darkening land,
are one. I am a string
stretched across deep
surging resonance.

Things are violin bodies
full of murmuring darkness,
where women’s weeping dreams,
where the rancor of whole generations
stirs in its sleep . . .
I should release
my silver vibrations: then
everything below me will live,
and whatever strays into things
will seek the light
that falls without end from my dancing tone
into the old abysses
around which heaven swells
through narrow
imploring
rifts.

A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He harkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography. In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders. The timing was not good.  His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression. He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy. It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience. He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California. Come visit his blogs and photo sites. www.artrosch.com and http://bit.ly/2uyxZbv

 

Want to be sure not to miss any of Art’s The Many Faces of Poetry segments? Subscribe to Writing to be Read for e-mail notifications whenever new content is posted or follow WtbR on WordPress.


The Poetry Of Youth

The Many Faces of Poetry

I wrote in an earlier piece that my first motivation for writing poetry was to please a girlfriend. What is more apt, more romantically human, than writing and reciting poetry?

I was fifteen and completely smitten. My amour and I belonged to a group of friends who fancied ourselves as Beatniks, avant garde, fringe elements. Oh, how daring, these suburban kids flirting with dangerous radicals and writers! We weren’t political. We were curious and flying as close to the flame of modern art as we dared.

Our god was e.e. cummings. A close second was Charles Bukowski. Cummings was the defiant rebel and iconoclast. Bukowski was just plain foul, profane and we loved his flouting of middle class lifestyles. The two poets could not be more different. In the classroom we studied T.S.Eliot. We studied Robert Frost. Whee!

Then cummings came along and we were swept up in his lyricism and humor.

since feeling is first

who pays any attention

to the syntax of things

will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool

while Spring is in the world

 

my blood approves

and kisses are a better fate

than wisdom

lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry

—the best gesture of my brain is less than

your eyelids’ flutter which says

 

we are for each other: then

laugh, leaning back in my arms

for life’s not a paragraph

 

and death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings

 

This is one of his classics, one of his best known poems. In it he exhorts us to pure experience, to FEEL life, not to think about it. That appeals and will always appeal to the young. Bukowski is a different matter.

 

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there’s no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

 

Charles Bukowski

 

Bukowski was more the nihilist, far more transgressive of social norms. He didn’t give a shit! By the way, if you haven’t seen the movie “Barfly”, do so. It is based on the life of Bukowski. It’s a hoot.

I don’t know many high school kids these days, so I have no insight towards their poetic tastes. They have hip-hop. They have the internet. I have no doubt that kids today are as adventurous, rebellious and weird as they have always been. It would be a good research project.

As always with these essays I close with a poem of my own. I’ll keep it brief. It has nothing to do with the subject.

 

Magical Dancers

 

Between my pillow and the back of my head

Magical Dancers

in the space where the stubble of my balding scalp

meets the soft fabric of my cotton dream ship

Magical Dancers.

Shall I wake and know this to be a dream?

Dancers dressed in furs and leather

wearing antlers and tusks

tracing circles and hopping

from one leg to the other

drums and rattles, sticks with bells shaking

Magical Dancers in a dream

but my eyes are open, my mind lucid.

This is no longer a dream.. Are these dancers merely

the fleas left behind by the cat as he warmed my pillow?

Surely not! Surely not! But if they are, then I salute you,

fleas, for taking on strange identities

in a world where nothing is quite real

where fleas are shamans, ancient survivors

magicians of blood and skin.

If I turn on my side, what will I see? Fleas vanishing into the cat’s fur

or shamans celebrating the oncoming wave of another dream?

 

Arthur Rosch

http://www.artrosch.com

http://www.aroschbooks.com

A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He harkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography. In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders. The timing was not good.  His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression. He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy. It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience. He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California. Come visit his blogs and photo sites.  Photos in these columns are by Arthur Rosch.

 

Want to be sure not to miss any of Art’s The Many Faces of Poetry segments? Subscribe to Writing to be Read for e-mail notifications whenever new content is posted or follow WtbR on WordPress.

 

 


Rumi, Spirituality And Poetry

Ego within the Ego

The oldest poetry of all is in the Holy Books. The Rig Veda, The Maharashtra, the Buddhist Sutras, The Old and New Testament. Then there are the extended legend/poems that have become embedded as virtual racial memories of mankind. The story of Beowulf, the Icelandic Eddas, The Iliad and The Odyssey. It seems as if poetry came first, was the primal form of literature, handed down from The Gods to human beings.

More familiar to us today is the work of the Sufi mystics like Rumi. I know that Rumi’s poetry has become a consumer commodity. His work is immune to vulgarization, however, so I’m not worried about Rumi. He is said to be the most widely read poet in the world. His work has survived eight hundred years. He nearly vanished to the western world until Sufi scholar Coleman Barks translated Rumi into English and it took off…again!

Rumi addresses himself to God, to Allah, as if to an intimate lover. He gives all of himself to the Highest because he is in love with the Highest. Rumi is also very human, rooted and ordinary. He offers us practical insights on daily survival. He writes, “Don’t worry about what doesn’t come. By not coming it may prevent disaster.” He may as well have been speaking directly to me. I’ve waited for a lot of things that haven’t come.

Poetry and prayer are inseparable. Isn’t every poem really an address to the Divine? Isn’t it laden with hope, desire, confusion, supplication and maybe even surrender? Rumi’s poetry attracts modern readers because it retains its purity, it can’t be trivialized by the consumer paradigm that dominates our world. It doesn’t matter that Donna Karan uses Rumi to sell fashion. Or that rock star Chris Martin uses this poem on an album by Coldplay.

 

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

I can’t think of any more appropriate response to the maladies that afflict us in these times.

This, then, is my poem, a poem very much influenced by Jalalladin Rumi of The Mevlevi School of Sufism.

A Worthy Destination

I haven’t found peace.

I don’t own peace,

rent peace,

buy or sell peace,

though I do encounter peace

from time to time.

Peace is like a friend

who comes for a surprise visit.

As my life takes on a shape

in which peace feels comfortable

I see peace more often.

Peace is not easily found in this world.

Peace comes like an accident,

a good mishap.

Peace lands in my heart like

a bird that’s raised its young

and is looking for a new place to nest.

I thought I would know peace by now,

but it’s taking longer than I expected.

The biggest problem is my mind.

It’s like a bag turned inside out, its contents

are the world, spilled and crazy.

Peace is not comfortable

in the world. When I’m with peace, I feel as though I’ve brought a guest

to the kind of party

that’s broken up by the cops after midnight.

I need to make peace more welcome here.

I should send peace an invitation, find a good solid tree

where peace can perch and sing

before taking flight

to a more worthy destination.

 

To see more of my writing, photography and music I highly recommend that you take an excursion to

http://www.artrosch.com

email writernuts@gmail.com

 

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A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He harkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography.  In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders.  The timing was not good.  His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression.  He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy.  It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience.  He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California. Visit his blogs and photo sites. www.artrosch.com and http://bit.ly/2uyxZbv.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


The Many Faces of Poetry: Poetry And Surrealism

Ego within the Ego

Surrealism And Poetry, by Art Rosch

Surrealism as a concept is well entrenched in the world’s consciousness. If you say, or think, the word “surreal”, a panoply of images will no doubt arise. “Weird, strange, odd, Salvador Dali, the subconscious, unlikely juxtapositions.” Anyway, that’s what pops into my head. You might think of snails, rock and roll and Frank Zappa…how the hell would I know what you think? Surrealism can be elusive. Everyone has their own idea of what constitutes the surreal. I find the world itself to be extremely surreal.

Let’s ask the internet. “Surrealism: a 20th-century avant-garde movement in art and literature that sought to release the creative potential of the unconscious mind, for example by the irrational juxtaposition of images.”

Aha! Surrealism began as a movement around the time of World War One. The fact that Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung were unlocking hidden layers in our psyches bears strongly on the rise of surrealism. Another important quote:” Surrealism allows us to see art in it’s purest form because it stems from imagination rather than rational thought. Because of this, artists are able to better express their emotions and thoughts through this art form.”

It was the writer Andre Breton who is regarded as the founder of Surrealism. In 1924 he wrote The Surrealist Manifesto. There were heated arguments, even violent brawls, over who got credit for being the father of Surrealism. That seems only appropriate. What events could be more surreal than fights over Surrealism? Consider those fights as early bits of performance art.

Earlier today I was talking to Poetry and I asked it, “When did you abandon rhyme and meter?” Let’s leave aside the vast bodies of oriental literature. They were never as welded to meter and rhyme as was the literature of Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, Donne, Shelley and Keats. I will be writing about this question in a later essay. I was asking the question because I realized that I have hardly ever written rhymed poetry. I realized that I have been a surrealist my whole life. Surrealism dovetails nicely with fantasy and science fiction and, provided one has the chops, er, the technique, the tools of modern poetry are liberating. In fact, rhyming poetry now sounds quaint, even corny. Forgive me if I insult your work, for no doubt there are many exceptional poets who use rhyme and meter.

Here, though, is Andre Breton:

 

All Paradise Is Not Love

The stone cocks turn to crystal
They defend the dew with battering crests
And then the charming flash of lightning
Strikes the banner of ruins
The sand is no more than a phosphorescent clock
Murmuring midnight
Through the arms of a forgotten woman
No shelter revolving in the fields
Is prepared for Heaven’s attacks and retreats
It is here
The house and its hard blue temples bathe in the night
that draws my images
Heads of hair, heads of hair
Evil gathers its strength quite near
But will it want us?

 

I think poetry like this is meant to be felt, not to be understood. Put away your rational mind and allow the words to penetrate to a deeper level. That’s what surrealism is asking of us. In the 1920s there was an epochal change in all art, all philosophy, all advanced thought. Science and art were getting closer to one another. Freud’s work was bleeding into the thinking of the poets and painters. There was really something going on, a ferment, a frisson, an explosion of creative energy. Such movements and moods arise in regular cycles. A war had just ended that challenged the very imagination of mankind. And another, even more shattering war, was just over the horizon. Artists of every stripe felt the need to come to grips with the overwhelming sense of violence in the air. Dali was painting clocks that hung melting over tree branches. His “Premonitions Of The Spanish Civil War” is a painting of a monster that can’t let go of itself. The Surrealists flocked to Paris in the 1920s and must have had a hell of a lot of fun. I wasn’t there but I’m here now in another efflorescence of the odd, the weird and the strangely juxtaposed. We are in another one of these epochs of high creativity.

One of my most surrealistic poems is this one, “Ghost Voiices”

Ghost voices grow

like weaving spires in the corridor of the night.

Stalactites of moonlight,

they hum and fade

through the wake of other minds.

A sheet of star rain glinting light,

a mist of moon- heat lost from sight

these spectral hints emerge

from the night floor in the dark.

Silver waving plants recede forever

in a song of twinkling echoes.

Ghost voices, shadow worlds

arise and converse

while my sleep waits beyond the hills,

listening.

 

This poem was inspired by a piece of avant garde music, something I listened to while under the influence of mushrooms. What does it make you feel? Anything? Or does it just go ‘wheeeewwwww…zoooom’ see ya later? That fleeting moment between wakefulness and sleep is called a “hypnagogic state”. I was in such a state when the poem wrote itself. It must have been around 1972. I regard it as surrealistic poetry, unmoored from rationality, free to tickle around inside your psyche.

That, my friends, is this month’s musing on poetry in its wonders and aspects.

 

Arthur Rosch: A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He harkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography.  In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders.  The timing was not good.  His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression.  He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy.  It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience.  He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California.

Links:

www.artrosch.com

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The Many Faces Of Poetry: The Poetry Of Love

Ego within the Ego

When I was fifteen I fell obsessively, passionately in love with a girl named Kay. She was the kind of girl that my mother would hate. I’m sure that added great luster to my blonde goddess, this Schicksa (that’s a girl who isn’t Jewish). I did insane things in the pursuit of my goddess. I invaded a Bible Camp in Green Lake Wisconsin, just to be able to see her. That didn’t work out very well. Kay’s mother was there. She was on the camp’s administrative board. Kay was mortified and her mother was filled with wrath. Anyway, the greatest thing Kay gave to me was poetry. She was that tweedy sort of intellectual teen who read e.e.cummings and T.S.Eliot. Thus it happened that my career as a writer began.

I don’t have any of the poems I wrote for Kay, or any of the poems I wrote at that time, none at all. It’s no great loss. I’ve written thousands of poems and most of them are lost. Some of them were stolen or destroyed. A complete stranger stole three of my notebooks from a stage while I was performing. A pissed-off dope connection burned two of my manuscripts. Still, I have a big fat book of poetry bound at Kinko’s. And I have eight backups on eight hard drives, at the very least.

Child Reaching For Love

There are all kinds of love poetry because there are so many ways to love. When love poetry appears, we all know it.

Here’s Pablo Neruda. I’m sure it’s better in Spanish

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it’s you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Pablo Neruda

Woman views the Sea

Here’s Arthur Rosch. I’m sure it would be worse in Spanish.

Last night I counted your breaths while you slept.

Towards morning, I lost count, but you soon awoke

so I rounded the number and privately recorded

your many thousands of sleeping breaths

in the journal of love I am making for you.

This entry:

the night I counted your breaths while you slept.

I wanted to have a secret way of loving you,

a place where love is always new and mysterious.

I know that you count my breaths while I am awake.

Somewhere, inside the busy pain of your mind,

you find a peaceful grotto, and there

you count my breaths, unaware of what you do.

Your love is so constant, it is a place where my fears vanish.

I must practice harder than you, to love.

I must lie awake and keep vigil

so that while you dream, I am doing something important,

being the clock of your breath,

helping you sleep.

I can do nothing more loving for you

than to help you sleep.

You always wanted someone to watch over you.

You felt abandoned and alone. With this secret, I heal you.

I count the long slow breaths, I catch at the sudden twitches,

I invent words to accompany your dream-mumbles.

I wanted this poem to be a secret but I know I’ll read it for you.

Tomorrow night, or the next,

I will do it again, or find another way to love you,

something only I could think of doing,

and only you could know why it was done.

A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He harkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography.  In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders.  The timing was not good.  His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression.  He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy.  It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience.  He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California. Visit his blogs and photo sites. www.artrosch.com and http://bit.ly/2uyxZbv.