.

[~greg]

Destination of hero's in the sky

- is a double possessive.

"Destination of Hero", or "Hero's Destination", would be ok,
but it'd be odd, since it makes "Hero" a proper name.

"Destination of Heroes" or "Heroes' Destination",
seems to be what you were aiming for.
~~~~

Anunitu,

What bugged Sideways Sue back when you first appeared here
a few months ago was, first of all, that you flooded the forum with
a dozen of your poems, each one starting a whole new thread.
Which was a sort of miniature denial of service attack. And it is
considered impolite. (And it's different from what Harry S is doing,
which is triage.)

What bugged Sue next was that although you appended a '(C)'
and a date to each of your poems, and although the dates went
back years, and even decades, yet still you hadn't checked your
spelling, grammar, or punctuation. And that is a discourtesy to
readers.

(Incidentally, your poems were under implicit copyright the moment
you created them. And normally you'd use a symbol such as (C)
only to warn people that you had formally registered the copyright,
if, indeed, you had. But it isn't required. And neither is it breaking
the law to use the symbol even if you hadn't registered the copyright.
However, while posting your poems is evidence that you are in fact
the author and the owner of the implicit copyright, there is no chance
whatsoever of you ever successfully suing anyone for infringement,
unless you actually had formally registered the copyright. And,
perhaps unfortunately, you can't register the copyrights after
five years have passed. As seems to be the case with all your poems.)

But none of it bothered me at the time.
Because the dates of your poems implied that
you are not prolific, and therefore would not be
flooding the forum for long. And I guessed, apparently
correctly, that you were a decent enough person
who simply happened to be going through some
sort of personal crisis at the time, and that
you'd be getting over it soon enough. Nor was it
hard to guess what the crisis most likely was, at
least in part. You had said somewhere that you
had served during the Vietnam war, and had
discovered Leonard Cohen, around the end
of the 1960s, when you were in your early 20s.
Which told me that you either just turned 60,
or were about to. So my guess was that
your "crisis" was simply "age related".

( Incidentally, anunitu, you say here

at your age I was trudging through a jungle, not playing at being a hard ass,
I was a hard ass.

whereas before you said

I did 4 years 65-69, floated around in the Tonkin Gulf Picking up Pilots
that ditched after they couldn't land.

So your story is inconsistent.
(Attention to detail is what poetry is about!) )

I was disappointed in Sideways Sue. So I said so.
I thought she jumped the gun on your "Baby Killer" poem.
Because I think that critics should at least sometimes
make allowances.

While I honestly hope no one cares, just for the record
I now give my opinion about that raging controversy
as to whether we should always go "nice 'n easy" on the
poems submitted here, like Mr Rogers, or whether we
should always go "nice 'n rough", like Ike and Tina Turner would do,
And my opinion is: -- it all depends.
It always depends.

And that's all I'm going to say about it.
~~

But what really does bother me, Anunitu, about your poems,
is their form. Their fucking form!

How in the hell did you ever get yourself into the habit of writing
didactic poetry in rhymed couplets? With every line broken
down the middle with a comma?

What ever gave you the idea that such a form is good for
every conceivable human sentiment, - instead of what it
really is only good for - really bad satire?

I could swear I've seen it before --in some book called something like
"really bad Victorian poetry."


At first I thought it had to be the product of an un-American education system,
since some of the other foreigners around here also seem to think that it's cool
to write poetry in totally archaic academic formats.
As I recently quoted from Paul Fussell's book "Poetic Meter & Poetic Form",

Many contemporary American poets have been tempted to renounce
rhythm on the grounds that, associated as it is with the traditional usages
of England and the Continent, it is somehow un-American. And it is probably
true that the special tonalities of American idiom do require some adjustments
in traditional prosodic usages.

But that's not about form, it's about meter and rhythm.
Which are very much more interesting than form.

So it's my guess that you and the others who write in these absurd
sing-song formats do so only because you think that it excuses you
from having to put any effort into the poetic aspects of poetry.

I'll cut this short, and just tell you that making the ends of adjacent
lines rhyme does not magically turn them into poetry.
It turns them, rather, into transvestites.
~~~

What saddens me most about your poetry, Mr Anunitu,
is that I was in high school the same time you were.
And you even say you grew up in Oakland!

Housing project or not, for those who don't know, Oakland
is only about 10 minutes from San Francisco.
And it boggles my mind that you could have grown up there
and yet have completely missed out on all the contemporary
poetry and music and manifestos and everything else going down
that should have made it totally impossible for you to ever wind up
writing poetry in such a lame ineffectual form as you do.

And of course it is not a matter of American vs British.
One of the first poets I ever felt passionately about, (in high school,
-slightly less so now) was the British Wilfred Owen.
And he didn't write in rhymed couplets!

What bugs me most about your poetry, Anunitu, is it's total ineffectualness.
Whether you were a grunt in the jungle or a swabby on a ship, there is not
a single line or word in your "Baby Killer" poem that suggests that you ever
had any personal experience of what you're talking about.

But I'm not talking about lying vs telling the truth.
Even before I was into Owen I was into Stephen Crane,
who wrote one of the most realistic war novels ever written,
"The Red Badge of Courage", without having had any experience
of war at all. Not even from the movies!

In your "Baby Killer" thread I said that you needed therapy.
I was referring to your poetry style, but I had already guessed
that what you were really trying to do with your little flood of
poems was to leave something positive behind in case you
were to die suddenly. Ie, therapy for a "wasted life". That
kind of thing does account for a lot of human behavior.
And obviously for a lot of the "poetry" being written around here.

But it's up to you. Writing poetry can save your soul,
if you're sincear with yourself about it. Whereas
the only proper reward for rhymed couplets, as taken
from a time they may have been a little more natural to,
is to get you tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail.
~~

For an unrelated reason I ran across an unusual Wilfred Owen poem
recently, which I will now share with you, to show you one effective
way to write about war, and a more effective way to tell Harry S
what you say he does not know.

It is an unusual poem for Owen in that he says in it something
positive about war. Namely, of course, about the camaraderie.
And my advice to anyone who sincerely wants to write an effective
anti-war poem is that they will have to confront this matter of camaraderie head on.

"It is thought that this poem was written in response to a letter from Robert Graves
who urged Owen to 'cheer up and write more optimistically' on the grounds that
'a poet should have a spirit above wars.' "

Apologia pro Poemate Meo - Wilfred Owen

I, too, saw God through mud—
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

Merry it was to laugh there—
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.

I, too, have dropped off fear—
Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear
Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;

And witnessed exultation—
Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.

I have made fellowships—
Untold of happy lovers in old song.
For love is not the binding of fair lips
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,

By Joy, whose ribbon slips,—
But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.

I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but the trembling of a flare,
And heaven but as the highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.

November 1917.

see http://www.1914-18.co.uk/owen/apologia.htm

[Geoffrey]

Greg wrote:
>But what really does bother me, Anunitu, about your poems, is their form. Their fucking form! How in the hell did you ever get yourself into the habit of writing didactic poetry in rhymed couplets? With every line broken down the middle with a comma? What ever gave you the idea that such a form is good for every conceivable human sentiment . . .?


That really bothers you? I don't know about Anunito, but I always find it easier to believe someone who critisises me than someone who gives praise. Maybe criticism hurts me more than it does another person, I don't know. It's all psychological. Someone once noticed that I had webbed toes and asked how it felt, and as I had never had unwebbed toes I couldn't answer that either. Writing good poetry is something it is nigh on impossible to feel indifferent about - people can either write or they cannot. Untalented people can yearn to and learn to write poetry, but it'll never be a part of their soul. In the middle of the night they can see a newspaper between the lips of the letterbox, they see the dustbin still outside the gate, a light on in the hallway - but still they don't realise nobody's home. In the end it is fate that decides who is born with which gifts, and what is fate if not an entwinement of cosmic coincidences? There is no good poetry in here, Greg - as we both know. But there is no poison in here, either. When a man is in the desert and his throat is rather dry, he thinks it's bliss to drink his piss - for then he might not die. When dining out a gentleman uses utensils placed furthest from the plate first, the universal principle of social interaction. Start from a distance and gradually move inwards, for only unrefined riff-raff grab random cutlery to stab dead meat. As I said, it's all psychological. Flowers are beautiful, but their association with funerals destroys the scent. That is what really bothers me, Greg.

[imaginary friend]

Geoffrey, you are a scary dude.

Greg, you rock (although I need to take the whole day off to read your posts man).

[Cate]

Greg, you rock

Totally !!!

~~~

Writing good poetry is something it is nigh on impossible to feel indifferent about - people can either write or they cannot. Untalented people can yearn to and learn to write poetry, but it'll never be a part of their soul.

Not true Geoffrey. There’s a big difference between innate ability and passion. Of course the greatest poets are born with a predisposition for sounds, rhythms and images (and probably a dozen things more) but whether they put that to use or not is a dice roll. Talent can’t be taught but the skill of writing a good poem can be. The craft of it can be. If a person is passionate, if they are willing (and have the time) to invest effort and if they have at least one of the qualities that go into making a poet then they can learn how to write a good poem – maybe not a fantastic poem – but a good strong poem. Carl Lewis fell on his ass multiple times before he walked much less ran.
Oh by the way, I have some bubble gum stuck to my sole any idea’s of how to get it off.

[lazariuk]

Anunitu, are you standing fast that your title needs no correction?

Cate, 'Goo Gone' is the miracle gum removal product. Oh what joy it was to find when I set about to remove many labels from bottles.

Jack

[anunitu]

I hope your problems are solved, you no longer have to read the poem.

[lazariuk]

I always find it easier to believe someone who critisises me than someone who gives praise. Maybe criticism hurts me more than it does another person, I don't know. It's all psychological.

Hi Geoffrey
Of course it is easier to believe someone who criticizes. It might be psychological but I think it can be discussed by considering the physical.
When sitting in meditation and trying to be aware of what your body is experiencing, what comes most easily is the places where there is pain or discomfort.

Jack

[lazariuk]

I hope your problems are solved, you no longer have to read the poem.

Is this an answer to my question?

Anunitu, are you standing fast that your title needs no correction?

Jack

[anunitu]

My answer is the poem is no longer on this site, so no problem. Give it a rest

[Geoffrey]

anunitu wrote:
>My answer is the poem is no longer on this site . . .

That is a pity, but instead of deleting it why not write to Greg about the dangers of dissecting a poem? I can do it for you if you wish. It could be something like this:

Let us compare a flower to a poem. If we pick too much at its delicate petals, or at its pistil, leaves or stem - the flower becomes damaged. And if we dig into the root's intricate details, it will die. For even though such minutiae are necessary to create the plant, its beauty, like a poem, is best enjoyed from a distance. If we pull the structure apart piece by piece, it can never be sewn back together - but is destroyed for ever. We can preserve it with hair-spray, press it between the pages of a book, or pickle it in an aqueous solution, but it stays dead. Its radiance, its sparkling life, is gone. It helps little that we, in our error, believe that the key lies at its source - that the mystery is solved by examining the root. Only while part of the work remains hidden will it live out its allotted time. For a flower, that might be a few days of summer - but for a poem it can be a thousand years.

[Cate]

I liked this Geoffrey.

Let us compare a flower to a poem. If we pick too much at its delicate petals, or at its pistil, leaves or stem - the flower becomes damaged. And if we dig into the root's intricate details, it will die. For even though such minutiae are necessary to create the plant, its beauty, like a poem, is best enjoyed from a distance. If we pull the structure apart piece by piece, it can never be sewn back together - but is destroyed for ever. We can preserve it with hair-spray, press it between the pages of a book, or pickle it in an aqueous solution, but it stays dead. Its radiance, its sparkling life, is gone. It helps little that we, in our error, believe that the key lies at its source - that the mystery is solved by examining the root. Only while part of the work remains hidden will it live out its allotted time. For a flower, that might be a few days of summer - but for a poem it can be a thousand years.

I see your point but flowers are very tempting, how can I just look at a flower and not explore what it is?
How can I not take it’s petal and see what it feels like. I want to squish it between my thumb and forefinger and discover what it feels like on my cheek. I want see what it smells like away from the stem after my thumb nail has pierced the middle and see if it leaves colour on my wrist.
I need to tear off a leaf because I want to know how hard the plant will hold onto it. I want to feel the veins big and small traveling through it. Is the bottom smooth like the top or is it a bit prickly and rough; how does that feel on my lip and while it’s there what does my tongue think about it? I wonder what the rip will sound like when I tear it open and smell whatever scent seeps out, before I roll it into a tiny green ball and grab the next one so that I can examine those smaller veins better that will eventually lead to the stem which I will slice down the middle to see what moisture will ooze out, will it be slick? will it be sticky? blah blah blah... I could go on and on; there’s a thousand things to a flower and I want them all.


edited as I forgot to mention that I liked what G. wrote, which was the point before I sidetracked myself.

[lizzytysh]

Hi Anunitu ~

It seems you would rather have been ignored than to have incurred all this, is that right? I never got a chance to read your poem and I'm sorry I didn't.

Even though I feel there are more or less natural-born poets, I also feel it's a skill that can be learned and honed; and I like what you've said here about poetry, Geoffrey... though I have to disagree with the implication that there has never been a good poem here. As wonderful as the realm of poetry is, I don't feel that it is so sanctified as to no one here ever having made the grade of writing/posting a poem that would qualify as good. You're not scarey to me, at all, and back to what you said:

Let us compare a flower to a poem. If we pick too much at its delicate petals, or at its pistil, leaves or stem - the flower becomes damaged. And if we dig into the root's intricate details, it will die. For even though such minutiae are necessary to create the plant, its beauty, like a poem, is best enjoyed from a distance. If we pull the structure apart piece by piece, it can never be sewn back together - but is destroyed for ever. We can preserve it with hair-spray, press it between the pages of a book, or pickle it in an aqueous solution, but it stays dead. Its radiance, its sparkling life, is gone. It helps little that we, in our error, believe that the key lies at its source - that the mystery is solved by examining the root. Only while part of the work remains hidden will it live out its allotted time. For a flower, that might be a few days of summer - but for a poem it can be a thousand years.

These exchanges remind me of my visit a couple weeks ago to a Butterfly Farm for a festival there. They had areas where you could interact with the butterflies by holding a short stick with a sponge [a painting tool?], and put it near a butterfly and wait for it to land on it. When it did, you could hold it close and look at it from many angles. I inquired about some of the really raggedy looking butterflies, with portions of their wings missing, and the woman said that it was due to children. When I asked if they were able to grow back, and had the answer I expected confirmed, I suggested a Do Not Touch sign with enforcement of it when children are there; even a short presentation on its importance. It was really sad to see these damaged butterflies. That's not to say that every poem is a butterfly, yet there is a lesson in what Geoffrey has spelled out so clearly, too. Your response to it, Cate, is clear evidence of your ability as a writer.


~ Lizzy

[lazariuk]

Wordsworth in speaking about poetry once made the comment that "To dissect is to kill" and to that he got a strong rebuke from T.S.Eliot who replied that it is the poem that we have in front of us and not the poet and in many important ways the poem is already dead. Eliot was of the opinion that a poem should be examined with all the resources that are available, without concern that anything will be lost by doing so.

[lizzytysh]

That, too, is clear evidence of the diametrically opposed thoughts, ideas, and philosophies of great writers. When it comes to there being only one ways and means of moving through this life, there are no absolutes.


~ Lizzy

[lazariuk]

My answer is the poem is no longer on this site, so no problem. Give it a rest

Hi Anunitu

My curiosity is never a problem for me, as a matter of fact sometimes I think it is the only thing that I have going for me. I have given a lot of consideration into trying to find a way for your title to make sense and I don't mind being told that I haven't tried hard enough. I certainly would tell my curiosity to take a rest if I was to learn that it had been engaged by a typo. Was it just a typo?

Jack