Wacky In The Noggin And A Boot To The Buttocks
I don’t know what to write sometimes. Hmphh, some writer! Moving on, however...
I think my o.c.d. has been acting up lately. I’ve been thinking that all the books I own need to be in near-perfect condition in order for me to be a ‘proper’ writer because that’s the condition of ‘proper’ writers’ book collections, except I’m told that it isn’t, that I’m just being a little wacky in the noggin, and I think I might perhaps believe that may well be true, quite possibly. Ha-ha.
And I’ve been thinking that my poetry isn’t ‘real’ poetry. I’m not talking ‘real’ in the sense that Yeats or Bukowski or Verlaine is ‘real’, coz that’s really REAL poetry, from the tendons of the earth beneath well-worn slippers, and mine’s certainly not real poetry like their’s – it’s but a fact that few genuine poets exist – at least, I think that’s probably correct – although my slippers are slightly scuffed, shall we say? – so, no, I’m not talking ‘real’ like that. I mean that my poetry doesn’t feel ‘real’ to me (at the moment, anyway) because I don’t have a clear understanding of the varieties of poetic form. Most of my so-called poetry is free-form stuff, but does not, for example, the painter need to be able to draw accurately before legitimately experimenting with line and form? I think there are a lot of sloppy, semi-skilled poets in the world today, myself included; and I feel a pressing urgency to improve my poetical understanding and skills. Yet, am I just talking rubbish? I mean, perhaps Bukowski couldn’t adequately descant upon accentual-syllabic verse in relation to the iambic pentameter and its caesurae, and I think my o.c.d. has been acting up lately and that can be debilitating to me.
In fact, yesterday I was so discombobulated, and at times so dang tired, not to mention busy trying to get a uni. assignment in on time, which I failed to do – I think I missed the papers box closing time as the office was closed by the time I arrived, a bit after 5pm – that I didn’t do anything for the 118th anniversary of Charlie Chaplin’s birth, beyond pleasant well-wishing. A big-footed kick in the buttocks for me! I plan to do something this weekend, if not before. Watch a short and eat some custard pie with Shantoozy, at least.
Happy Birthday for yesterday, Sir Charles!
I think my o.c.d. has been acting up lately. I’ve been thinking that all the books I own need to be in near-perfect condition in order for me to be a ‘proper’ writer because that’s the condition of ‘proper’ writers’ book collections, except I’m told that it isn’t, that I’m just being a little wacky in the noggin, and I think I might perhaps believe that may well be true, quite possibly. Ha-ha.
And I’ve been thinking that my poetry isn’t ‘real’ poetry. I’m not talking ‘real’ in the sense that Yeats or Bukowski or Verlaine is ‘real’, coz that’s really REAL poetry, from the tendons of the earth beneath well-worn slippers, and mine’s certainly not real poetry like their’s – it’s but a fact that few genuine poets exist – at least, I think that’s probably correct – although my slippers are slightly scuffed, shall we say? – so, no, I’m not talking ‘real’ like that. I mean that my poetry doesn’t feel ‘real’ to me (at the moment, anyway) because I don’t have a clear understanding of the varieties of poetic form. Most of my so-called poetry is free-form stuff, but does not, for example, the painter need to be able to draw accurately before legitimately experimenting with line and form? I think there are a lot of sloppy, semi-skilled poets in the world today, myself included; and I feel a pressing urgency to improve my poetical understanding and skills. Yet, am I just talking rubbish? I mean, perhaps Bukowski couldn’t adequately descant upon accentual-syllabic verse in relation to the iambic pentameter and its caesurae, and I think my o.c.d. has been acting up lately and that can be debilitating to me.
In fact, yesterday I was so discombobulated, and at times so dang tired, not to mention busy trying to get a uni. assignment in on time, which I failed to do – I think I missed the papers box closing time as the office was closed by the time I arrived, a bit after 5pm – that I didn’t do anything for the 118th anniversary of Charlie Chaplin’s birth, beyond pleasant well-wishing. A big-footed kick in the buttocks for me! I plan to do something this weekend, if not before. Watch a short and eat some custard pie with Shantoozy, at least.
Happy Birthday for yesterday, Sir Charles!
posted by S. Gregory | 9:01 pm
6 Comments:
You don't necessarily need to know the rules to break the rules to create real poetry, Dylan Thomas, Charles Bukowski and Walt Whitman all created their own style in their own way - indeed Dylan loathed academic analysis of poetry as he struggled to grasp formative understanding of poetical structure. It really depends on what you are conveting and how you want to do it.
In the same way but different medium, a technical genius like Kubrick new so much about film he was able to play with it, but then look at Terry Jones and Terry Gilliam who knew nothing about the process when they both directed Holy Grail - but a film like Holy Grail. Both filmmakers make real films.
Different schools of thinking produce different outcomes. As long as you are remaining true to your style but not being afraid to experiment (because everything seeps in no matter how subtle) then your stuff will always be real poetry. Trial and error, and taking James Joyce perspective that people will find the poetics behind your work and believe that you have broken certain style - even if you didn't purposefully set out to do it.
Rups
That post is completely unreadable, sorry, I've got a horrible cold and I'm thinking through a mass of fog here.
I think Tom Verlaine is pretty real. I mean, Television is the truth, right?
Nice comments on Alex's blog.
Damn you Spam. You're only any good in a musical.
Things need to exist in order to be real.
How do you believe the painter came upon the knowledge to draw excellently? He experimented!
Never compare your writing with another. First off, you have not given it 200 years to see if it will stand the test of time. Then again, how could your emotions and experiences possibly be interchangable?
No, dear, you need to write what you know. If it turns out to be something others enjoy, all the better. Do you think Poe thought his writings were excellent when he wrote them? (I love Edgar A. Poe.) Hang in there. Maybe we can share some poetry someday (but that's all! lol).
Rosemary is a wise one. I don't know much about poetry but when I understand yours I really like it. Your OCD makes you doubt everything, the key is being able to recognise that when your doubts circle in on themselves, like in this post, it is very likely your OCD is causing the problem and you just have to ride the doubts through the storm and eventually you will find the storm clears.
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