|yeah, you like that you fuckin' retard?
ooo these crayola cyclones
stacking like earthworm oil
from the second to third
they climb through gravity
with sub-molten hues
of lilac and blood orange
my hand traces
helix after helix
of obtuse, wrinkled rainbows
mirroring florid, vivid vomit
and autumn dreams
leaking from eyeballs
5 Oct 17
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ambitious. very poetry-like. very much like the action poet figure 'passionate'.
'stacking like' is weak.
'stacking from the second to third dimension
'earthworm oil' is the problem. it's a strong image but it's stacking up against the cyclones and doesn't have a dimension of its own.
'obtuse wrinkled rainbows' is arty. the whole line, like 'earthworm oil' is just decorative.
this is an action poem, where the slapping of the words on the page is most of the energy. things get complicated when you change gloves mid-slap and don't show why.
so this is me describing my painting with literal analogies, which is how I always write what I believe to be poetry.
the paint fights gravity as layer after layer dries. I'm painting colorful rainbow autumn scenery that I remember from my youth, staying up all night and my eyes are tired and sore and I keep yawning and rubbing them.
yes, but you're inventing poetry when you write poetry, but you're inventing off other inventors poetry too. it's not like we're writing in this vacuum. we have to feed our own need for saying it in poetry, but we also have this thing of giving this word structure into the world of structures.
so, it doesn't matter what i SEE in my vision, it's how i make vision into music and then words. like, in our subjectivity, why isn't just posting just the phrase:
and calling it whatever, enough for us? i learned long ago that it's that i wanted to show my work to other poets, people who i really respected because they made words work in a way that just reading a fact didn't work. and, i wanted these poets to see me as a poet. now, i'm pretty much only what i am, which is a worder poet, and i mostly want other poets i respect to show me how i might have done it better -- meaning, how it is that i might have flinched or tried to be cute and get away with it.
i really think that writing out into space is the way we become real. it's the making it and letting it work or not work on other people that shows me who i really am.
color -- ok, have you read my 'quartet'? because, like this one, it's about color replacing concepts.
'drying' is contraction, negation. to another dimension -- but, 'dimension' is mind and not body -- the idea of color converts to emotion. you've got it right, but there's nothing in the actual poem which reacts to this idea, this feeling.
'climb' is the verb -- changing into something else because you've felt something else.
that's the poet move, against the prosaic, change because i thought something else. we say that thought only comes after and as a reaction to action, to the felt. that feelings are real.
hey man, I want to thank you, first and foremost, for taking the kind of time and energy it takes to put forth honest critique and advice. I appreciate it and value it. I've been an asshole on purpose to you lately, and could still probably be in the future, but I HAVE read a lot of your poetry and I DO look respect and admire your writing... I still disagree about what constitutes poetry, good poetry, and the best poetry, or even bad poetry. but I am trying to consider your insight with an open mind because I believe that's the way it should be done. your comments have never offended me, only challenged me and, like I said, recently brought out my inner asshole. I love argument and debate, and will gladly do it all day.
as for your comment about dimensions, it IS physical, and not of the mind. the painting starting out flat, a 2D painting, and as I layered more and more oil, it became 3D. I'm quite literal in almost all of my writing, which may be part of the problem. it often comes off as merely prose with, ahem, Victorian line breaks- which j do not know what that means. my line breaks are how I read it in my head, how it sounds, each line a phrase split exactly where I think it should, to pace the reading. that's how I write poetry, self taught, having only read the works of others and never taking any classes about it.
thanks for engaging me. really.
thanks for your kind comment on my method.
the dimension thing -- i'm a painter and i see vividly the paint drying. and, i see that as a neutral process, yes, but the idea of 'dimension' is conceptual. there's no dimension except as point of view. i live only in one dimension, and i'm moved mentally to extend into the world through my apprehension of the other, of the things out there in the world. but, i'm moved only through need.
the problem with poetry is finding the right physical analog to that need. i can say that color exists only as medium and that color CHANGES as it passes through physical change: like 'red' to 'rust'. but, if color changes from 'red' to 'blue' it must mean either an extraordinary emotional change. one which meant my whole means of seeing color had changed.
ok, so i write:
my you as living i saw as white,
your purity shown upon life's slate gray;
thus, endless, fell my doubt to black;
all doubting tints blue and fades away.
what's this, some kind of keats maybe... a game of exchange, played in a parlour.... obvious. and, to get beyond the victimization of living in a box, we write out a kind of polite scream.
it comes down again to who i want to burn in the world with a poem. society or god. dad or mom, nature and life, and how it all comes down to 'do you know me?'.