Category Archives: rant

My Personal List of Poetry Assholes.

 

  1. People who write Haiku and claim to have worked hard at it.
  2. Slam poets who don’t know how to wrestle.
  3. Neo beat poets who smell nice and are well fed.
  4. Confessional poets who have nothing interesting to confess.
  5. Lovers who think that Romantic poetry is about their torrid love affairs.
  6. Concrete poets who have never tended a mixer or built a building.
  7. Any one who thinks Shakespeare was a genius.
  8. Writers who think the written word shouts louder than the spoken.
  9. Spoken word poets who don’t know how to write but do know how to shout.
  10. Poets who think poetry sucks and then write a blog about it..
  11. Journal writers who want to publish the travails of their lives as poetry.
  12. All poetry judges.
  13. Professors of creative writing programs who don’t themselves write.
  14. Poets who give negative feedback in poetry workshops, for your own good.
  15. Average people who say “I use to write poetry”.
  16. Republicans who claim to have a creative side while voting against the arts.
  17. Any one who thinks Keats and Byron are still relevant today.
  18. Poetry academics that turn up their nose at anything written after 1900.
  19. Free verse poets who don’t know how to write a couplet that rhymes.
  20. Ignoramuses who believe that alliteration is an arcane science.

 

 

An Interview With The Word Hate

Words are metaphor sound containers wanting to be opened, interviewed and heard. I have never met a word that didn’t want to be heard. Even hard to believe-in words want to be pronounced. Like Holocaust. Like Rape. Like Shame.

Imagine not being able to announce these words as travesties and creations of heartless men. What if there was no way to shout No, never again?

Voice gives words a power that they would never have if they were only read.

Yesterday I interviewed the word “Love” Today I will interview the word “Hate”.

Poetman: You seem to be everywhere at all times, where do you get the energy?

Hate: I have a secret fuel source. A vitamin if you will, that gives me all the energy I need. The source is inexhaustible. So I am confident that I will never die.

Poetman: Never die? Wow. “Hate” you seem so confident of that, how can you be so sure?

Hate: As long as there are strangers, I live. As long as there is fear, I live. As long as there is difference, I live. I am an I. I have a self. I am contrast. I am the antidote to fear.

Poetman: What’s in the sound container of the word hate?

Hate: That’s an interesting question. You see the word hate first starts as a deeply internalized reaction to an emotion that threatens the core of a person’s sense of self, or to the way that self wants to belong to someone or to something.

Hate starts as silence; the need for a strictly enforced silence. This silence is usually enforced by an outsider of the self, a family member or a community trying to maintain certain standards. As soon as you learn to “never talk to strangers” or include an appreciation for strangeness or difference; a family or community becomes locked by a stricture of its own conformity.

Poetman: “Hate” tell us more.

Hate: Remember earlier when I said that I have a secret fuel source, an inexhaustible fuel source?

Poetman: Yes I do, I have been meaning to ask you about that.

Hate: As long as there is a fear that love is finite, that it has limits, there are those who will endeavor to protect it as a resource. When love is threatened, hate lives. And then what was a silent festering protective impulse begins to gather to itself some sympathetic and loud friends. I am speaking of course of “Rage” and “Anger”.

In the sound container of the word hate is a cacophony of anguished voices crying “I am me. I belong. You can’t take love from me and if you try, I will kill you.”

So you see Poetman, I am guaranteed a long, long life.

Poetman: Yes, I guess I do…

13 Days

Day 6

now might be the perfect time to remember our promises:

glass, wood, and string
bound together without an
architect -

one hot mess
hung by a nail on
the back door of our totality -

but that’s not what we pretend.
no, we act like its “all right”
as if everything proceeds as planned -

that we are not worried; not
noticing that wood tensions tend to
ache towards splinters.

we are the watched and the watching.
everything we do is observed by
ourselves or others.

yet we swear we have not been seen,
much less heard. that’s why we can’t
stop complaining.

most of us are excited though -
because we believe in the
redemption of reincarnation

that’s the belief that no matter how bad
we screw up now, we’ll get to come back
later if we promise to try a wee bit harder.

13 Days

Day 5

does anyone know
what its like to have a
gang-bang going on in their head -

to be entertained by fear,
to have termites eating the sticks
that hold them together?

when we are gone, we are gone.
why is it that while we are here
we get so good at dissociation and

become addicted to distraction;
convinced we have all the time
in the world?

what ghost will wear masks
to our funeral – what whisper will
contradict our corruption?

on the slab of truth
which of our intentions
will be left believable?

An Interview With The Word Love

I became a poet because words, the way we use them, are by themselves utter failures as explanations. I needed something better, and that is when I discovered that words are metaphor sound containers wanting to be opened and interviewed.

So I called up the word Love, and set up an interview. Love arrived late of course. Here is an excerpt from our little discussion.

Poetman: “So Love, tell me a little about yourself.”

Love: “Well first of all I do not have a self, for I am everything and nothing. I am the vastness, I am the emptiness, I am anger, I am joy, and I am life. I don’t have a self to tell you all about.”

Poetman: “What motivates you?”

Love: “There is no “I” in me; no “you”; I use the word “I” loosely – so that you will understand me more fully. I have no internal reference. I am driven by a multiplicity of external forces. I am called upon to act as an explanation for every human impulse.”

Poetman: “Sounds like a big job”.

Love: “Well, thanks for noticing. Yes it is a big job and a thankless one most days. I am blamed or praised by all the worlds’ people depending on what effects they can ascribe to my actions. Actions which I have already explained never came from me in the first place.”

Poetman: “So Love, I have this theory that words are sound containers, what is love a sound container for?”

Love: “Do you want the long answer, or the short answer?”

Poetman: “Well due to space limitations, the short one.”

Love: “Ok. Love is the sound container for hope, and hope is the sound container for belonging, and belonging is the sound container for place.”

“When people have a place to stand or fall which they can call their own, they then can know love.”

“And when they have this place, then they can invite someone else into it, and this they call being in a relationship.”

“Relationship is the avoidance of death. Relationship is the ultimate defiance of death, proving to one and all that the “lover” exists because they are a reference point to an “other”.”

Stay tuned readers; Poetman will write more about words as sound containers sometime in the near future.

13 Days

Day 4

with our minds lets be reactors,
counter-attackers,
ricochet watchers -

but with our bodies
(our voices and our hands)
lets act like movie extras waiting for a director.

this way the miracle happens sooner.
this way our murder is part
of a story –

we don’t care what part. the important thing
is someone gets to be a hero;
let’s hand the hose to a fireman.

if reason and logic mattered
we would sit in classrooms
studying socrates –

instead of memorializing
our minds with tattoos
of pop pornography.

what’s the only thing that matters?
how to be beautiful without the jealousy
we think we need to have of others.

13 Days

Day 3

How did we forget that plans, schedules,
and loyalties are temporary – that in a quantum
world arithmetic is chicken scratch and fable…?

In our hands – between us – we sincerely made god.
How did our creation become an addiction to mad
scribbles, church building and prayer codifications?

Day 3 ½

There is no such thing as the “glory of god”. There is only
the rudeness of our arrogance and the supposition that
we as investigators have the capacity to define omnipotence.

…go now to the river, and give Charon the pleasure of your penny.