The Sea & Talent

Art

I shall be forgotten in the morning,

And they will be remembered until dusk.

And then beyond, a massive night abysmal,

Amorphous, like a cloud or mist or haze.

What is art? Not every man pursues it.

Every culture has a different taste.

Painters on the walls had many talents

In Herculaneum and in Pompeii.

And on the walls of caves, imagination.

Or failing that, to capture what they saw.

What is art? Another child of nature,

That fangs and talons will reduce to flesh.

To be obsessed with art and its conclusion

Is said Eric Berne, just indigestion.

12-26-13

 

Dreaming About Cats

Fantasies mangled by violent flicks

That would do me in -

Arguing whether the mentally ill

Should be given a gun is as mad

As giving the mentally ill a gun.

Music hath got no charms

To soothe the savage or his breast,

Or whether he's a beast.

This is the modern world of Man.

Anyone can have it.

Bukowski's the icon of poets,

And Merwin is a joke.

For all his brains and the books he's read,

Merwin is a farce.

Punctuation is there for a purpose.

Americans have no purpose!

12-26-13

 

Denny's

I'm only happy when I sit in Denny.

It's dreary with the key in my own door.

In a booth in Denny's, writing poems,

Drinking coffee, staring at the room,

Making jokes, or reading poesy -

My own or someone else's – mostly mine.

Is this a life? I never had a friend.

I can't communicate. Except in verse,

I think of the most marvelous ideas

(That probably occur to everyone

Though I have never read them in a book).

Paradoxes, idiocies of feeling,

Come from me. And I am not alone.

12-26-13

 

On The Forum

Ignorant and stupid, they will

Not shut up.

When information fails,

They start to cuss,

Screeching like a banshee,

Claws unsheathed, they argue

Like an 8 year old.

Observing no one's feelings,

Except to save their image,

Supercilious and condescending,

They praise bad verses in a knowing tone.

Forming little cliques and coteries,

They groom each other. When the forum closes,

They migrate to another and continue,

Illiterate with little else to do.

12-26-13

 

Rage

When rage meets rage

They touch, ignite

And sooth the conflagration.

Soul sees soul,

And each soul sees the other.

Love ensues, and infancy

Together on a meadow

Begins anew.

Anger is dispelled.

Spell! I hear the syllable!

Break it! And walk free.

There is no spell.

There's only what I see.

12-26-13

 

The Sea & Talent

Not going neath the sea again,

But let the wavelets lap

Against my chest

And give me poesy.

Did Shakespeare drown in ecstasy

To write his many words?
Was Keats a genius?

Who am I to care?
I am small and singular

In Denny's all alone.

I read Keats and Shakespeare,

So I know them – so it feels.

12-26-13

 

Showers

I hate to take a shower

Every other day.

Suddenly I stink again.

The cleanliness won't stay.

The water splashes on me.

I reach around and rub.

I stoop to feet and ankles,

Attack the dirt, and scrub.

Stoic in the shower,

I simply never sing.

They holler that I stink,

But I don't smell a thing.

12-26-13

The Classics

I can't simply say, “I love the classics!”
But that I love some pieces

Made by some composers

Played and sung by some

Performers I enjoy.

That's the truth.

Some opera is grand.

The greatest art humanity achieved

In the 19^th Century. Except

The Parthenon, the Greeks,

The Catholic churches

(Built with money taken from the poor).

Another fly, but don't discard the ointment.

A poor man loves to look at Chartres too.

12-26-13