|Poetry prose and Pensions
Is it worth it? Living fast
to die young, tortured and tormented,
the life blood of your imagination
trickling to a stop on the page
on most days.
Constipation of the cortex, a constant
occupational hazard, will you live long
enough to laugh at the twisted
angst of your younger self?
Wouldn't you rather
be Chatterton in a bath chair
with a wrinkled quill? Churning out
rows of words – three thousand a day
or Dylan Thomas, pint in hand,
novels about being old and bald,
no dying of the light or rage
in his 77th year, or maybe silver-haired
Plath, laughing at memories
of idiotic Ted,
scribbling copy with her twilight
garden close at hand. Iambic pentameters
now consigned to the past with those other
subtle devices that clutter the mind along
with the despair they bring.
No mind enjambed with trochee
or grappling with vodka inducing
caesura, words mocking you from the page,
hand grenades about to blow up
in your face.
So, no more wingless rhythms, let
the prose syntax flow, filling your computer screen,
spilling from one file into another.
Payment by the paragraph. Research shows
if you want
to grow old to, God only knows,
maybe even pensionable age
don't choose poetry, stick to prose
and who knows, Harold Robbins may
become your muse.
23 Apr 04
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This is brilliant -satire.
by the by... how does one become a " poet laureate " ?
it seems cities and countries employ these people ( to what end i don't know- but it sounds well- paying)
You become the poet laurete by sucking up to the queen and the Minister for Arts after travelling round England telling all the darlings who write shit that they are wonderful. Then you say not one controversial thing for 20 years and if you manage all that you might be short listed. Actually, who gives a fuck.
Larry King of his own domain Lark
Do people in the States get satire? Sometimes i wonder.
Larry Languishing in bile Lark
i don't know...
do fleas get fleas?
I think everything and every one carries some sort of parasite. I found a dead slug in the bottom of a cup that had been left out on the patio and it was swarming with infintisimally tiny things i've never seen bfore, like they were vultures doing a survey on a corpse.
vultures doing a survey on a corpse...
there's a nifty poem just beggin'
ta happen, right there...
this makes me smile in such a peaceful way; while the content may seem troubling you've added your touch of humor. i like prose not being capitalized. i do indeed. can't stress that enough.
Wonderful stuff, Larry. Intelligent, irreverend and sparky.
this poem reminded me of Robert Lowell's line after a stay in the looney bin, paraphrased here, "Cured, I am frizzled, stale, small."
your writing reminds us of one source of really bad poetry (personal shite) and asks us, as poets--how far are we really willing to go for our Art? i say, unless you've got the chops to turn your shit into true art, go far! down those pills, eat your gun, but please don't inflict us with musings of your sad childhood, your asshole of a spouse, or your bad day.
i think some of us yanks get satire, larkness. at least the broad variety. a dying art, satire. i enjoyed yours!
no crits, as this is whole and clear. thank you for the smiles and imagery of becalmed, aging Plath, Thomas, etc.!