I'm living the dream. The really, really weird dream.
Great poem.Reminds me of one of my favorites(when I used to read poetry and write it and study it somewhat in college, and when I pull off the shelf the book of poetry that is beautiful and magnificent and food for my heart and gut):Why I Am Not a Painterby Frank O'HaraI am not a painter, I am a poet.Why? I think I would rather bea painter, but I am not. Well,for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in."Sit down and have a drink" hesays. I drink; we drink. I lookup. "You have SARDINES in it.""Yes, it needed something there.""Oh." I go and the days go byand I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting isfinished. "Where's SARDINES?"All that's left is justletters, "It was too much," Mike says.But me? One day I am thinking ofa color: orange. I write a lineabout orange. Pretty soon it is awhole page of words, not lines.Then another page. There should beso much more, not of orange, ofwords, of how terrible orange isand life. Days go by. It is even inprose, I am a real poet. My poemis finished and I haven't mentionedorange yet. It's twelve poems,I callit ORANGES. And one day in a galleryI see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.---------Here's one other poem:The Hanging Manby Sylvia PlathBy the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.The nights snapped out of sight like a lizard's eyelid:A world of bald white days in a shadeless socket.A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.If he were I, he would do what I did.------She must have lived hard and intense. I mean... wow. Pow-er-ful."You Can Have It" by Philip Levine is excellent.I enjoy a helluva lotta poems by Robert Creeley. Two by him:The RescuebyRobert CreeleyThe man sits in a timelessnesswith the horse under him in timeto a movement of legs and hoovesupon a timeless sand.Distance comes in from the foregroundpresent in the picture as timehe reads outward fromand comes from that beginning.A wind blows inand out and all about the manas the horse ranand runs to come in time.A house is burning in the sand.A man and horse are burning.The wind is burning.They are running to arrive.----I Know a ManbyRobert CreeleyAs I sd to myfriend, because I amalways talking,--John, Isd, which was not hisname, the darkness sur-rounds us, whatcan we do againstit, or else, shall we &why not, buy a goddamn big car,drive, he sd, forchrist's sake, lookout where yr going.-----That last poem almost always makes me laugh. Out loud.Poetry. I've forgotten/neglected poetry. Thanks for the reminder.All my best.Mike Sz. from Brooklyn
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