After Reading In An Old Book

Verismo

A vulgar situation

Makes a Post-Romantic poem.

Verses left me long ago.

I'm writing verses now.

Byron was aesthetic,

Even more unreal than Keats.

Shelly praises music,

And Millay went down at sea.

Tell me where's the poet

Who can stir a turbid soul

And satisfy his intellect

While altogether real?

Reality was never a good

Subject for a song,

But isolated aspects.

Overwhelming it is death.

People are ridiculous.

Dishonesty prevails.

America's the cutest little

Country in the world.

4-5-14

 

Music

I'm listening to music,

Rachmaninov again,

Not the noisy madness

Of contemporary din.

Earphones firmly on -

That's how I compete -

Prokofiev's concertos

For piano – wild and sweet!

There's no where I can go -

There's nothing I can do -

To escape this hateful country

That Jesus gave to you.

It wasn't to the immigrant -

It wasn't to the black -

It wasn't to the Mexican -

Though all of them fight back -

4-5-14

 

On Byron

Artificial sentiments -

Artificial love -

All said in perfect meter -

With rarely metaphors -

Keats declared of Byron,

He writes what he can see,

And just what he imagines

He mentioned of himself.

4-5-14

 

Alone

With him asleep, music on,

Seven hours until dawn,

I feel sweet, and content,

Completing what I never meant

To do at all when I was young -

Write some poems sweetly sung -

Have them published, change my name,

Acquire a modicum of fame -

To sing my soul like a frog

To a fickle fetid bog -

People look from far away

Like something that intends to stay.

I am gay. What of that?

You are bald. Your wife is fat.

I am in a peaceful daze.

Let the public sing my praise.

Let them say my verse is rife

With the beauty that is life.

I am weary. Will again

Poesy come from my pen?
Or just drivel from a hack?
Millay and Keats will not come back.

4-5-14

 

Janus

I read a book of poems that I wrote

A year ago. The vessel wouldn't float.

Flat like Sondheim, fallen like a star,

I saw my poems for the dross they are.

50 years I wasted in a dream,

A delusion, thinking piss was cream.

I've been told my poesy is great.

I've been told it's terrible. My fate

Is to stand forever by the sea

Making wishes for eternity.

I surrendered finally. And then

I went back and read some poems again.

The truth was gone. The dream was back in place.

Once more the songs seemed charming. I'm a case.

4-6-14

 

Quandary

Am I just a paranoid

Who hasn't any talent?

They told me I am gifted.

They said I am a sap.

I wrote a lot of poems,

Some 97 books,

Not counting those unpublished,

And those I threw away.

She took away her flattery

And drove me from her door.

I don't know why she gave it.

I don't know why it's gone.

I don't know how to live.

I don't like

Liars keeping secrets.

Sondheim is so asinine

I think we are alike.

4-6-14

 

A Sad Song

I've written all the poems

I shall ever write.

The afternoon is moving

To eternal night.

Perhaps there is a future

Passed senility and death.

Is sex the only lover?

And tender taken breath?

Death and reproduction -

Is there nothing more than this?

Are poetry and music

Just a substitute for bliss?

4-6-14

 

After Reading In An Old Book

In youth I was despised

And considered scum.

Now I'm writing poems.

So where do they come from?

Music blinds my senses

To grim reality,

The incandescent star

Of ancient poetry.

Meter, rhythm, rhyme,

Images and phrases

Create a world of hope

That once again amazes.

I looked into a book

Of poems. It is so.

I see I could write poesy

A couple years ago.

Forgetting their opinions,

Though some of them are right,

I have a single candle

To drive away the night.

3-7-14

 

Sad Rain

Sad rain, wash away the sea.

Leave the night to madness,

Emptiness, loneliness and me.

Two years ago (they're dated)

I did write poetry.

It went to prose and rhythm.

But never was I free.

As I read the verse, I thought that I

Will try to grasp again (the gravid sky)

A melody, a picture and a phrase

To give some value to my latter days,

The fact that I am here, and didn't die.

I honor other poets, but I see

The one that I shall imitate is me.

4-7-14