Poetry... a dead art?

I am a poet/painter, which is why I also participate in this business, my question to you as providers, hobbyists... voyeurs is do you think poetry is dead? And why? Must a great poet take their own life after living in perpetual emotional agony before they become great? Or are there more Hemmingways to come? I would also like to open this to the sharing of erotic/nonerotic writing. Personally, I find my greatest inspiration comes from those who write as well. This might be silly to speak of, but I am quite curious! Also I am quite willing to share my work as well.

"if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else."
-- Charles Bukowski

"I fell in love —
that is the only expression I can think of —
at once,
and am still at the mercy of words,
though sometimes now,
knowing a little of their behavior very well,
I think I can influence them slightly
and have even learned to beat them now and then,
which they appear to enjoy."
-- Dylan Thomas

Qziz
partial to fellow drunkards

Both very intersting men. Bukowski is one of my all time favorites. Here is where my e-mail came from:
Black Maps
– Mark Strand

Not the attendance of stones,
nor the applauding wind,
shall let you know
you have arrived,

nor the sea that celebrates
only departures,
nor the mountains,
nor the dying cities.

Nothing will tell you
where you are.
Each moment is a place
you’ve never been.

You can walk
believing you cast
a light around you.
But how will you know?

The present is always dark.
Its maps are black,
rising from nothing,
describing,

in their slow ascent
into themselves,
their own voyage,
its emptiness,

the bleak temperate
necessity of its completion.
As they rise into being
they are like breath.

And if they are studied at all
it is only to find,
too late, what you thought
were concerns of yours

do not exist.
Your house is not marked
on any of them,
nor are your friends,

waiting for you to appear,
nor are your enemies,
listing your faults.
Only you are there,

saying hello
to what you will be,
and the black grass
is holding up the black stars.


Each moment is a place you've never been.

Jam up Jam up
In Jellytights
Daddy gonna love ya
till dawn light
Jam up Jam up
In Jellytights

Art does not demand pain
Pain may lead to art
Poetry died when we lost rhyme
Free verse is streaming thought
The discipline of meter and rhyme
Reflected the birth of the romantic and the savage
Discipline within discipline
Free verse freed no one.
Songs demand their meter, songs demand their rhyme.
Hemingway did not suffer, he only worked hard at his craft.
His suffering came much later.

Upon a Whim

I am suddenly panic struck,
This thought presents itself;
Where do they go when I'm gone?
The art I created out of luck,
Is it to vanish? Rest on the shelf?
Or used for fires under moons?

Upon a whim I birthed intentions,
Their lives hang in the balance.
Where should they go? To be happy?
To lay bare my sad addiction,
But what of your attendance?
My hands aggregate no enthalpy.

Free them at night, the wind
Carries many things. Words vanish.
Secrets are untold, broken, forgotten.
Only fire will completely mend.
The world should hold no gaudy tarnish,
Of my rumination, misbegotten.

The Poet

O hour of my muse: why do you leave me,
Wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight?
Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter?

How shall I pass my days? And how my nights?

I have no one to love. I have no home.
There is no center to sustain my life.
All things to which I give myself grow rich
and leave me spent, impoverished, alone.

Rainer Maria Rilke

I am a poet/painter, which is why I also participate in this business, my question to you as providers, hobbyists... voyeurs is do you think poetry is dead? Originally Posted by DownRoxy

No.

And why? Originally Posted by DownRoxy

Because some will always write to understand and move themselves, thus helping others understand and move themselves. I'll be damned if Rilke's poetry doesn't do that for me.

Must a great poet take their own life after living in perpetual emotional agony before they become great? Originally Posted by DownRoxy

I don't believe so. For me, the question is: When is greatness realized?

"Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em." - Shakespeare

Unfortunately, greatness is subjective, meaning someone has to realize then declare that it's been achieved. Considering that, when wondering if greatness has been achieved, watch for vultures circling dead presidents: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wefT_t2lHU

Or are there more Hemmingways to come? Originally Posted by DownRoxy

Yes. In fact, I believe some of them are living amongst us.

Personally, I find my greatest inspiration comes from those who write as well. This might be silly to speak of, but I am quite curious! Also I am quite willing to share my work as well. Originally Posted by DownRoxy

I'm pretty much the same. Well, except for being willing to share my work. I'm not that courageous... yet.

Nice thread, Roxy.

if we only could see it.

Love poerty.There is no higher art because it reduces the universal and complex to human scale and simplicity.
The Call Girl's Neck
Every profession has
Its language of commerce
The billable hour, the bulk sale,the volume discount
But in life
As well as business
It is the small things that save us
So, he was touched
As she arched her back
Exposing her neck
He gave thanks

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

--ee cummings

Ohhhh...good thread. It's always interesting to see the favorite poets/writers/artists of people and I guess the participation here(on a SHMB of all places) proves even if poetry isn't exactly thriving amongst the masses there will always be people that appreciate it.

One of my favorites:

Sonnet XVII: Love

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

-- Pablo Neruda

I love poetry though I tend to write lyrics, or at least I used to. At one job a bunch of us wrote amusing Haiku's. Here's one of mine.

gelatinous ass
quivers on a bar-stool HOT!
Six beers betrayed me

Poetry comes in many forms, ..

To me, poetry means, passion.

My body sways as surely as my paintbrush.

Sometimes, in black and white,

and.....

I became shy.