please convince me

[Anonymous No.4123523]

Can you guys recommend me some works by living and active poets that will convince me that poetry isn't dead?

Thanks in advance :^)

[Anonymous No.4123573]

I am British by Kareem Abdul-Jabar Mohammed Mustafa

. fuck the patriarchy . by Demeter Lesbian-Williams

; by surreal minimalist Ramon Salazar Estaban Cortes

i fuck opprezzzion by Charles (AKA "Charlotte") Klemperer

[Anonymous No.4123936]

>>4123573
>>>/pol/

[Anonymous No.4124013]

Artless

is my heart. A stranger
berry there never was,
tartless.

Gone sour in the sun,
in the sunroom or moonroof,
roofless.

No poetry. Plain. No
fresh, special recipe
to bless.

All I’ve ever made
with these hands
and life, less

substance, more rind.
Mostly rim and trim,
meatless

but making much smoke
in the old smokehouse,
no less.

Fatted from the day,
overripe and even
toxic at eve. Nonetheless,

in the end, if you must
know, if I must bend,
waistless,

to that excruciation.
No marvel, no harvest
left me speechless,

yet I find myself
somehow with heart,
aloneless.

With heart,
fighting fire with fire,
fightless.

That loud hub of us,
meat stub of us, beating us
senseless.

Spectacular in its way,
its way of not seeing,
congealing dayless

but in everydayness.
In that hopeful haunting
(a lesser

way of saying
in darkness) there is
silencelessness

for the pressing question.
Heart, what art you?
War, star, part? Or less:

playing a part, staying apart
from the one who loves,
loveless.

[[e-mail] No.4124293]

Subscribe to The Nation magazine and gain access to numerous poems written by Calvin Trillin, on from what's covered in the news each week to issue-specific topical pieces.

[Anonymous No.4124334]

hi im jordan castro and i write 'poetry'.

i post on r9k mostly but browse lit whenever i can.

heres a poem of mine that a lot of people seemed to 'like'

[Anonymous No.4124354]

A Rumor in Gomorrah

A man has told me god is good,
and stands above all men,
that he will never cast us forth,
though drenched with lust and sin,
That though we heed him little,
and pursue our own accord
he will not seek our bane nor yet,
unsheath his deadly sword
that he forgives excesses
and will not our prayers reject.

There was rumor in Gomorrah,
to that very same effect.

A friend avers that government,
has all our cares in mind.
And will not neglect the comfort of
the poor, the halt, the blind.
he maintains unreservedly,
his faith in policy.
to bring the fruits of honor to
the strong the just, the free.
he says the great in power seek
the profit of all men

It was mentioned in Treblinka,
but I did not heed it then.

Technology will save us,
i have heard a stranger say.
The wonderment of science,
skill, and tools will win the day.
Our comfort and our safety
we may leave to wise devices.
And men who build and train them up,
will coddle all our vices.
they'll see the futre clearly
and avert all waiting dooms.

I think I heard it spoken in
Titanic's smoking rooms.

The forgiveness of the strong is great,
I'm sure most meen agree.
The wisest and the best of us
will surely all be free.
the bold men, wise in letters
with their eye on public weal.
will never be cast out or forced
their knowledge to conceal.
Time alters soon the hearts of kings,
and all will be put right.

I heard it in the Gulag
almost every single night.

So go forth with the banner
of of redemption wafting high
and shout the slogan "Liberty!"
in land and sea and sky.
Of justice, peace, forgiveness, love,
proclaim the coming reign.
And cry the truth to power,
and the vanity of gain
That mercy always triumphs,
and that men will all be free.

Go tell them in Gomorrah,
but you didn't come from me.

[Mutemattics !!58hTUK7XbfZ No.4124441]

Was that pic part of you plan?

[Anonymous No.4124526]

>>4124013
>>4124354
it's not working

>>4124441
yes
I don't like Pound at all

[Anonymous No.4124541]

>>4124526
>I don't like Pound at all

My problem with Pound are not his actions: he was deep down a good person. Lincoln, for example, was a racist, but he freed the slaves after all. At the same time Robespierre advocated against the death penalty and for the abolition of slavery, while supporting equality of rights, universal suffrage and the establishment of a republic, and yet he was one of the main responsible for thousands and thousands of beheadings during the Terror – words don’t count nothing in matter of ethics, but acts do.

My problem with him is his poetic theory, which, firstly, saw the sound and sonority in poetry as more important than the metaphors and imagery. Well, this is one of the main reasons for today’s poetry (and even Pound and Eliot’s poetry) be filled with poems were words are glued together in nonsense sentences only for the stupid desire of making striking sound-patterns. This is ridiculous, for words and poetry will never be music. Of course you might try to create more wild and rough passages, or more drowsy and silken ones, but only if you do not sacrifice the sense and the imagery for this sake.

Secondly, Pound thought that the fusion of concrete language with abstract language should not be used. This is crazy! The marriage of concrete and abstract language is one of the most powerful tools of a poetical arsenal. Want an example? If concrete and abstract language should not be mixed many of the most glorious passages of Shakespeare (better that almoust anything else in recorded literature) would not exist, such as:

that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked newborn babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind.

(here, for example, Pity is an abstraction, but is connected with the concrete image of a babe)

Or

By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap
To pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon,
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
Where fathom line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drownèd honor by the locks,
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear
Without corrival all her dignities.
But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

(here the most string passage is that of honor being plucked by its locks; well, Honor is an abstraction, and it certainly had no locks and cant drown. But this passage is better than anything that Pound ever wrote).

[Anonymous No.4124572]

The lack of social etiquette
The fact is I'm so mean sometimes
Clap clap, hooray for me
I'm so young and I'm so poor
Adore me in my shine,
and I will bask in yours
Show me a broken home
And I'll show you a child
who knows the icy whip of love
who knows the feeling of barbs
beneath the flesh, tugging at heartstrings,
tearing him apart.

[Anonymous No.4124587]

>>4124572
Lisa, you're tearing me apart!

You're suppose to convince op that poetry isn't dead, not prove his point.

[Anonymous No.4124640]

OP here
I do write poetry and have been getting pretty engrossed in it. I'm being published in the 10:2 issue of Vallum for my first time, but since then I have been entirely dissatisfied with poetry in general.

I feel like it's missing the mark entirely, and it doesn't connect with me anymore. It's too showy and full of erudition.

>>4124541
thanks bb this is an accurate (and more eloquent) description of my displeasure of Pound.
His influence on poets and poetry was mostly negative.

What's always confused me was that Ginsberg was a raving Pound fan. He loved him and memorized a lot of the Cantos. Ginsberg is a hero to me because of his impact, but I feel a lot of his later poetry became garbled and empty. Maybe that was because of Pound.

>>4124572
fuck off

[Anonymous No.4124645]

I sing the god carcinoma
devourer of beggar and saint.
across all our tissue
the bulls he gives issue
make every is into an ain't

I sing the mighty sarcoma
Consuming the daft and the wise
In the pallid lymph courses
he marshalls his forces
Decembering all our Julys

Come give us the hymn "melanoma"
the bane of both pauper and prince
when the cool probe insults
and we wait the results,
and the specialist cannot but wince

we sacrifice things on their altars
a lobe or a limb or an eye,
that our doings without
may appease them no doubt
that this bribe might just let us get by.

But the comfort of friends is not cheering
and the struggle does not give release
and the glance of an eye
and the tremor and sigh
and the long dismal wait for decease

Oh drink you the health of Lymphoma:
requiter of dread and despair
and the step on the scale
as it tells a new tale
of a soon to be vacanted chair

But we had some good laughs with him didn't we?
and he made a good run of it though;
have another small round,
he won't wake at the sound.
take the bottle back home as you go.