washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.
will see the doctor,
Monday.
"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
hurts."
"are you drinking?" he will ask.
"are you getting your
exercise, your
vitamins?"
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
meaningless.
I leave early after buying tickets on the
remaining races.
"taking off?" asks the motel
clerk.
"yes, it's boring,"
I tell him.
"If you think it's boring
out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
back here."
so here I am
propped up against my pillows
again
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
notebook.
something is
walking across the
floor
toward
me.
oh, it's just
my cat
this
time.
Posts
29 comments:
Well, I want to say Hemingway but I don't think he wrote poetry. It's sparse and un-flowery enough to be him.
Not Ramon either. I know he likes the bigger, Tolstoyesque words.
Thanks Bob.
Ah, a nice choice Bob. I remember fondly drinking cheap red wine and reciting his poetry in gutters when I was 19. I was such a knob... but they were great days when I aspired to be a drunken literary figure.
How cute is the blonde on the end.
Oh, wait.
We're supposed to be discussing the poetry, aren't we?
Oh, she's blonde is she?
Well - yes.
The one nearest the camera.
I figured there was something for everyone in this post.
I didn't notice her hair.
I don't know, I find this poem a bit kind of prosaic
I didn't get past the picture.
She's a cutie.
Oh God. I hope I haven't been creepy again.
I liked the bit about the cat, Squib.
It's certainly not one of his best poems - not even close - but even a crap Bukowski is better than anything William Blake did.
Yes squib, his structure is odd. Almost a parody of earnest, undergraduate poetry.
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could wake me when it's over?
Youth of delight! come hither
And see the opening morn,
Image of Truth new-born.
Doubt is fled, fuck me dead
This is fucking shithouse already.
*
Just had a bad haircut. I'm taking it out on William Blake.
but even a crap Bukowski is better than anything William Blake did
Now you've done it.
William Blake is rubbish. And so is Chatterton.
And Percy Shelley. The poor man's Byron.
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'
How could you not like that?
Blake's not crap. I liked some of his short poems, and yes, some of the heavy-handed religious stuff is odious, but anyone who can write "Jerusalem" I will defend. It is the most beautiful hymn in the universe, according to this atheist. If you disagree, I will have to smite thee with my bows of burning gold and my sword if you say a word against that hymn. (I admit the music is probably the more stirring but the words are good too.)
Bukowski I find tiresome after about one or two stories. Make it one.
even a crap Bukowski is better than anything William Blake did
Persey, you are dead to me (until after I take the dog for a walk)
I thought I heard a scream of rage from Fremantle.
I'm with Perseus on Blake. I'm always wary of people who try their hand at multiple art forms: take Kylie Minogue, Delta Goodrem, Jason Donovan, Natalie Bassingthwaite, etc. An artist and a poet, Blake? Come on.
Wot about Bob Dylan then, eh?
Good point well made, Squib. How about this then: I'll reconsider Blake as soon as he's approached by a GPS provider to do a voice-over.
I expect that will happen sooner than we think
Jurassic Park-style, Squib?
Kettle, I think this could be a hit film. Shhhh, we don't want anyone to steal our ideas
as soon as he's approached by a GPS provider to do a voice-over
"Tyger, tyger
Now turn right".
Squib I can see it now: our reconstituted Blake will chase Jeff Goldblum around some godforsaken island lobbing small pocket watches and hurling delightful tea cups patterned with dog roses. Next year's Oscars are ours, for sure.
And Ramon, in the immortal words of Ms Fits, I laughed so hard I think I might have peed a little.
our reconstituted Blake will chase Jeff Goldblum around some godforsaken island
I'm imagining that godforsaken island is Tasmania.
Which would mean that *now* this post really does have something for everyone.
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