MrMary’s Take on Poetry Writing Month: Day 1: Turtle Necks and Words


Hey People behind a screen who I don’t see and/or know sorta,

Today I learned that it’s national poetry writing month and I am a bit happy and appalled by that. It kind of like my first sexual experience in many ways, that I cannot go into. I’m happy that poetry is being pushed to the masses in such a way as to coerce, inspire communication and shared activity. I’m appalled at the same time because I feel this coercion and inspiration has nothing to do with poetry and is in fact a farce.

Poetry to me, is something that someone doesn’t choose to do. You don’t ,one day after an epic 2 hour pushing session on the toilet decide you’re going to change your life and become a poet, right after you find a cheap fibre supplement. Poetry is something that happens, and it happens without reason.

The Illiad, The odyssey, Beowulf, Baudelaire’s Fleur Du mal, Rimbaud’s Drunken boat, T.S Elliot’s The Wasteland, Dante’s Inferno -all  these great testaments to the human experience didn’t come out of a competition or a national writing month. To me poetry comes from pain, not like pain like anal with only a smattering of lube – not that I would know anything about that, but the mechanics don’t look promising.

To me poetry is born from  an intense experience of living that forever changes someone and cauterizes their eyes to the effluvial substitute for live that we have grown so fond of. That’s the pain

Where do words come from?

by Vénus Khoury-Ghata

Where do words come from?
from what rubbing of sounds are they born
on what flint do they light their wicks
what winds brought them into our mouths

Their past is the rustling of stifled silences
the trumpeting of molten elements
the grunting of stagnant waters

Sometimes
they grip each other with a cry
expand into lamentations
become mist on the windows of dead houses
crystallize into chips of grief on dead lips
attach themselves to a fallen star
dig their hole in nothingness
breathe out strayed souls

Words are rocky tears
the keys to the first doors
they grumble in caverns
lend their ruckus to storms
their silence to bread that’s ovened alive

Not that MrMary is a Poet

Is this the face of a poet
Is this the face of a poet

It has been said by Stendhal actually I believe that the more people you attract the more superficial is the connection between them. I wonder if the same holds true for poetry and national poetry writing month ? Some of you may know that MrMary, aside from being a jerk has also been called a poet. I published poems in two magazines in 2012 and between sleeping next to raw sewage, trying to move before i get kicked another home, and the millions things that are   at time and is slowly glacially editing a collection for publication. I thought I would share with you from my notebook 30 poems/observations I have. They are raw non-edited, transcribed from  my weird notebook with a hand drawn picture of boobies on the cover.

I never wanted to be a poet or write poetry,  I used to think it was boring and crazy and that to be a poet would mean I would have to fold turtle necks at the Gap because I would be broke without work, selling bodily fluids to buy lunch and lotion for my hands … ( I can’t seem to be too serious today). I will be video recording these for you. I wasn’t able to do this one because I live with fucking animals , but enjoy. I guess I am a writer tho because I am sensitive about my shit so be nice

Untitled 7

It passes you by;
impactful moments in your life
that you cannot commit to memory.

Other people  can’t see them either
and I’m willing to bet that the very act
of seeking them makes them unattainable.

Somewhere
Trapped is
the best joke we ever
dropped onto waiting friends
suspecting the unexpected. The best meal we had
is still being eaten and the

kindest gesture we ever did, still grows
in the dark, shedding the fruit insignificant
reward.

I witnessed today,
one of these moments

There I was
hand on my chin,
elbow planted on the
inside window ledge, staring
through the living room-window,
counting all the bricks that hid
from my field of vision,
anything worth seeing

A box,
45 bricks across
and 25 bricks down
was all that was holding me
from life or maybe I should
call it Living

and That
made me laugh
for a good 5 minutes.
But no one was their to hear it
not even I.

 

 

7 comments

  1. Well, as a poet who hated poetry all my life until I started blogging, me likes this one sir. It’s true what you say, poetry chooses us, we don’t choose it. I look forward to reading more.

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  2. The specific quote from Stendhal has massive impact on me because as hard as I struggle not to lose a friend in that mode, it inevitably happens. I am not the kind of person who settles for superficiality. I tend to invest in a friendship with my heart yet I wouldn’t want it to be taken for granted. And I get hurt as a consequence. Will it be too much to ask for an honest-to-goodness bond with people I end up caring about?
    Pardon me for that, my dear MrMary. I am still reeling from a current heartache.

    I was never into poetry myself, but it’s a surprise that you’ve been able to pull poems from people that highly appeal to me. And even the ones you write I do like. How about that! 🙂

    Great posts. You never disappoint, Dave.

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  3. I’d need to test with you here. Which isn’t one thing I usually do! I enjoy studying a put up that may make folks think. Also, thanks for permitting me to comment!

    Like

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