Thursday, October 31, 2013
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
The Inner Ear
"What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today."
Lines on Ale, Edgar Allen Poe
I am drinking ale today."
Lines on Ale, Edgar Allen Poe
Monday, October 28, 2013
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Friday, October 25, 2013
The Inner Ear
The attitude that nature is chaotic and that the artist puts order into it is a very absurd point of view, I think. All that we can hope for is to put some order into ourselves.
-Willem de Kooning
-Willem de Kooning
Monday, October 21, 2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Mayakovsky- A Poet in the Revolution
Edward J. Brown
Princeton University Press
Princeton, N.J., 1973
"The body of Mayakovsky's work might be usefully investigated as an 'encyclopedia' of Russian life in the early twentieth century and as an auxiliary guide to the history of the Soviet period."
"The study of his poetry is in a sense an investigation of the poet's mind itself, of the ways it experiences the world and how it gives form and expression to that experience."
-from Introductory Remarks
"How do you dare call yourself a poet
and gaily chirrup like a quail
Today
you must
use brass knuckles
and cut yourself into the world's skull"
-Mayakovsky
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
You Want To Be a Poet
You want to be a poet? What are your credentials?
Well I speak and read and write.
I have a pen.
(I used to steal them in third grade)
I like paper and I know what the word "treacley" means.
I become angry with anyone or anything,
Righteously and indignantly.
My degree is in an unrelated field.
Played a little rock and roll.
I am an American and can be any damned thing I please.
I hear the muses whisper.
I despise the "workaday world" and other stultifying cliches
about "the way it is".
I reinvent myself every day.
I write dance drink until I can't move.
Most poetry bores me.
I baled hay, smelled sweet clover in the dewy morn,
Smelled magnolia blossoms in the thick Texas air,
Drank moonshine,
Drove 95 mph,
Cried from broken heart over laughing women,
Walked home in the rain,
Narrowly escaped death more than once,
On the highway, in the river,
Shouted at the sky, danced in tribute to the moon and clouds,
Got on the bus,
Saw sunrise at 30,000 feet,
I hear violins, see shadowy figures, smell raspberries where there are none.
I get writer's cramp.
I drink at 3 a.m. and laugh at the radio.
I get up and go to work.
I go home and go to sleep.
I dream.
I don't need credentials.
I was born a poet.
I feel anti-social.
12-5-02
Mike HillMonday, October 7, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
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