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
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
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
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.
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
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
45 bricks across
and 25 bricks down
was all that was holding me
from life or maybe I should
call it Living
made me laugh
for a good 5 minutes.
But no one was their to hear it
not even I.