I sorted through an enormous pile of poems yesterday and found some treasure, including the first poem I brought to a Radish King writing group I was in way back when. It's better than I remember. Yesterday I recorded myself reading poetry for Menacing Hedge. I told Gio I want some Vincent Price movie music playing in the background with faint screams. I don't think he's going to do it so I'll have to settle for jazz. (What about bongos?)
Can I say here-I dislike penis poetry. Let me explain. These are male poets who feel the need to name drop in their poems, the Beats, esp Allen Ginsburg and, of course, Bukowski. And they get up to shenanegans when they read; they yell, they stab the air, they twirl on their manly toes. Blech. And they're of a certain age. I try not to criticize but geez, enough already. Let your work stand on it's own without all the posturing and hubris. And maybe you'll hear if your work is actually decent. I often want to see the page when I hear spoken word and the like. How does it hold up? Am I engaged and curious? Do I want more? Do I return to the work again and again because there is always a new discovery? Am I challenged by the language and the rhythm?
Yelling and gesticulating is not necessary. Not. Necessary. (see above)
Off to bike the Green River/Interurban trail.
3 comments:
It was an excellent poem. I remember it clearly and how you staked your place by the fireplace.
xor
I was SO nervous. I realized I was in the presence of greatness...
oh fooey!
(:))))
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