Lawrence Ferlighetti: Poetry is Dead. Long Live Poetry!

notes on poetry

Incidental Comics by Grant Snider, originally published 08/13/11

Shrine by Deng Ming-Dao

Wade the warm stream to
The shrine across the river of golden sound,
Where a drunken bee drones the holy syllable
Over a crimson lotus.
Rich mango magenta and spice offerings
Are piled high by the devout.
Entering into hut of blue stone –
Cool black interior smeared with incense and
Pierced with tiny triangles of candle flame –
Ordinary cares fall to the crystalline floor.
Fiery letters appear in the air
And reappear in your heart.

~Shrine, Deng Ming-Dao

A New Kind of Migraine

A New Kind of Migraine

Abruptly an outburst,
eyes distort & I can’t see

It is an obstruction, three
or so semi-transparent
bar code decorated ribbons
disturb my vision

I can’t see past them
as they start to flicker
then oscillate, actually
rotate as in boat propeller
spinning

The ribbons unite,
connect; expand & grew
in a neat half moon
fluctuating on my right side
of view

& remain if I close
one eye or the other
or when I close
both, proving it is
in my mind

Then the roof explodes

I lay back,
ease into Chaos
& they go

They leave me
as quickly as they
appeared

Leave me behind
thick fence
of chicken wire
as my eyesight

05.27.10

(Art © 2011 & Poetry © 2010 by j. m. Scoville)

Fall from My Shoulders

Fall from My Shoulders

Heavy, dragging across, burdensome,
I am a pack animal this day, hauling
a bleak cargo bound to nowhere,
merely existing to weigh myself down

& clog my pores, to veil my eyesight,
& muddle my brainworks. Such an
underrated time, but yet, I haven’t
come to my senses, haven’t stood
straight up & let the rubble, this
ruin, fall from my shoulders.

03-18-11

(Art © 2008, Poetry © 2011 by j. m. Scoville)

fallen

Fallen leaves still show path of sudden
streams on trails created by torrential rains
of recent days. The creek remains just
above its banks & continues to fill beds
usually left dry.

In reaching limbs of a certain tree,
orangish gold rays illuminate it
in brilliance of falling sun. Down,
I am wandering in gaining shadows
about dips now full of blessed water –
the swamp, a least turn, our pond.

Anywhere here I could die
& be happy where I fell.

03/10/11, after an invigorating walk
in our woods with my canine daughter

(Photo © 2009, Poetry © 2011 by j. m. Scoville)

Smothering Lapses

Breaking down, an
easy, sincere breath.

Heavy, heavier, &
heaviest rains
on this roof, seen
out through a thin
screen, past altar.

Even a moth has
fled my panels.

Upon swollen
eyes, in bloated
belly, as limbs
weaken, I refuse
to cave altogether.

I am in a tutorage,
lessons laid out,
spread across an
occupied table.

Children hide under
neath, adults go blind.

03.04.11

(Art © 2008, Poetry © 2011 by j. m. Scoville)

So Bright

So Bright

Everyday you have left
here or there, off
to work or wherever,
dangling life before
hunger of death.

I have done the same
when I departed our
property.

So why should I
worry about tomorrow
when today is still
so bright?

03/04/11, 8:30 PM after meditating,
during thunder, lightning & rains

(Art & Poetry © 2008 by j. m. Scoville)

Hope

Hope flounders off
shore, unreachable.

I do think it will
drown if not rescued.

I know there is little
chance of it learning
to swim on its own
& reaching the bank.

It takes two to go
out & bring it back in.

But there is only
me, alone, feeling
the cold rub my bones

as I try to remember
when you were still here.

(© 2010 by j. m. Scoville)

October 10, 2010

10-10-10

I have fallen into this
day from a great height.

The winds are trumpets
lightly played
& their passage
through the new growth
rubs leaves, needles, &
branches, causing a
profound understanding
of a cello.

The sky is hot as is one’s flesh.

Autumn is teasing us,
keeping out of the circle,
running ‘round laughing.
Her coolness visits briefly
as summer leans into
our day & smiles brightly.

(© 2010 by j. m. Scoville)

Steadies Suffering & Releases Us

My best boy is in
next room, unmoving,
only moving his eyes,
resting with the Mama &
his sister Le Noira as we
all wait for Vet to
come soon, less than
an hour, to give him the
kind of sleep that steadies
suffering & releases us.

Chad is outside mowing
grass. Blues played
long this afternoon while
I laid beside Flapjack
& found a moment of rest
where I dreamt Jack sat
up, got up, & walked away.

He will do that soon.

We are all hanging on each
moment, feeling, listening,
rejoicing, expecting

& sad.

3:51 PM, 7/12/10 .

(Photo & Poetry © 2010 by j. m. Scoville)

blame

I blame no one, nothing,
because much good does come
from these afternoon storms
that quench the thirst of so
much about me.

But I wish there
was less of it.

I dream & am made
imperfect. I lean &
fall down to the carpet.
I itch & feel stains of
poison ivy.

I wonder & blame current
affairs like the Oil Slick
in the Gulf.

I sit & am made
translucent.

06.02.10

(© 2010 by j. m. Scoville)

Whittled from the Inside

My universe is thunder & lightning
& rain & darkness. I have no torch,
no flashlight nor candle, but I can
see in the dark
& know that a system founded
upon such diversity will eventually
shift with calm possible afterwards.

I am aching.
My stomach is being whittled
from the inside.
It growls & groans.
I must accept such pain & lay
it down on a lovely altar
with cut flowers

& my poetry.

06.03.10

(© 2010 by j. m. Scoville)

false & unreal

false & unreal


There is heavy tapping on
this rooftop while I wonder
if electricity will hold.

As I consider, I have already
wandered off in dark to where
flashlight dwells.

Already I have imagined
myself as blind man,
suddenly devoid of sight,
with world open to me
only by touch & sound.

I do this while rain
shortens & I am still in
well lit house.

How easy it is to let go
of now & be lost
in somewhere
false & unreal.

05/20-21/10

(Poetry © 2010 by j. m. Scoville)

[artistic photography created by http://www.louviereandvanessa.com/]

Without My Help

i.
In silence, a little hum stirs
to skip across carpet.

Windows darken in a way
both familiar & comforting.

Rabbit nibbles grass
just beyond glass
& we quietly watch –
almost holding our breaths.

ii.
Birds surrender their sounds
to the hour, laying them across
our wooden porch in trade
for feed & water.

But I don’t deal in water.

It falls without my help.

05/19-20/10

(© 2010 by j. m. Scoville)

NOW

TODAY is different than
yesterday, no different
then yesterday. NOW
wasn't a moment ago,
it is pressed against
cheese-cloth, sorting
milk from its fat,
leaving a glass full
of what life has made.

Yesterday is imagination.

I compare now to then,
compare the best of me
that I remember, those
brilliant accomplish
ments, & put them before
mirror - cause a reflection,
trying to find the same
in this fragile second.

Fortunately, there is only
NOW.

(© 2008 by j. m. Scoville)

A Season in Hell

A Season in Hell

by Arthur Rimbaud Translated by Bertrand Mathieu

A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.

One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.

I armed myself against justice.

I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you!

I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.

I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.

And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.

So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.

Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!

"You'll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who'd crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!"

Ah! I've been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.

From A Season in Hell & Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud, translated by Bertrand Mathieu (BOA Editions, 1991). Used by permission.

"If a Man craves attention because of his poems, he shall be like a jackass in moonlight."

The New Poetry Handbook
~for Greg Orr & Greg Simon
by Mark Strand


1 If a man understands a poem,
he shall have troubles.

2 If a man lives with a poem,
he shall die lonely.

3 If a man lives with two poems,
he shall be unfaithful to one.

4 If a man conceives of a poem,
he shall have one less child.

5 If a man conceives of two poems,
he shall have two children less.

6 If a man wears a crown on his head as he writes,
he shall be found out.

7 If a man wears no crown on his head as he writes,
he shall deceive no one but himself.

8 If a man gets angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by men.

9 If a man continues to be angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by women.

10 If a man publicly denounces poetry,
his shoes will fill with urine.

11 If a man gives up poetry for power,
he shall have lots of power.

12 If a man brags about his poems,
he shall be loved by fools.

13 If a man brags about his poems and loves fools,
he shall write no more.

14 If a man craves attention because of his poems,
he shall be like a jackass in moonlight.

15 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a
fellow,
he shall have a beautiful mistress.

16 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a
fellow overly,
he shall drive his mistress away.

17 If a man claims the poem of another,
his heart shall double in size.

18 If a man lets his poems go naked,
he shall fear death.

19 If a man fears death,
he shall be saved by his poems.

20 If a man does not fear death,
he may or may not be saved by his poems.

21 If a man finishes a poem,
he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion
and be kissed by white paper.

Carson McCullers by Charles Bukowski

Carson McCullers
~by Charles Bukowski

she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
steamer.
all her books of
terrified loneliness
all her books about
the cruelty
of loveless love
were all that was left
of her
as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body
notified the captain
and she was quickly dispatched
to somewhere else
on the ship
as everything
continued just
as
she had written it

[artistic photography created by http://www.louviereandvanessa.com/]