Response to John Tranter’s, “Why is modern poetry so difficult?”

Finally, someone I can disagree with. To say modern poetry is extremely
difficult is to say cooking dinner is an overwhelming task. It does take
a little longer to read and understand, but that is the beauty, most of
the time there nothing to really understand, you just read words on a page
and get a fuzzy feeling inside. Poetry is written at a level that means
to slow the reader down a bit, make the read think a bit, and cause the
reader to see something new. I don’t think that it is hard, it is more
difficult than Frost, but not more difficult than E.E. Cummings. I still
remember the first poem I read by Cummings, “Up at Me Does.”

Up at me does
Out of the quiet floor
Stare
A wounded mouse
Who is asking,
What have
I

Done

That you
Wouldn’t…
Have.

I didn’t look it up, I just put it like I remember it, but the message
is still clear, when the structure of the poem is changed, the essence
of the poem is enlightened. The actual body of this poem says as much
as the words do. So, no, I don’t think that modern poetry is extremely
difficult, but I think it is much more rewarding than a laudanum addict
sitting on a hill writing about trees.

Response to Kasey S. Mohammad's Dossier

Response to Kasey S. Mohammad

This was a very interesting and even entertaining interview. It did confuse
the hell out of me like a lot of poetry tends to do. However, I feel that I
understand the drive of language poets more now that I did before. For Example,
when I walked into this class I still thought poetry should rhyme and be
in a form, e.g. a sonnet. I remember reading kari edwards and wondering
how what she was writing could be considered poetry, or even prose. I
think I understand what is being done on a larger spectrum now, I see that
any attempt to limit expression is a contradiction in it’s own right; therefore,
to force all poetry (a artistic expression) into one box is to limit what the
artist can do. In fact, it would be like forcing all basketball players to be
5’10 and weigh 180 pounds. In addition, there are certain things a person/poet
can do with no limits. Many poets can thrive on that and really blow the
mainstream mind with something new and creative. I must advocate that
we keep pushing the envelope and continue to create new and fresh poetic
works.

The peices I read for Class

I wrote this late one evening after realizing something about women...
It's called, "Lessons learned on a Rainy Night."

Darkness covers quickly and the damp luminosity of
the moon is shattered by a bedlam of lightening.
The thunderous beat of a drum being battered somewhere
in the heavens startles the children and sends shivers
down the backs of men. The sky is different, the stars
still glimmer, but they seem even further away now.
All the while, trepidation controls the emotions of the
ignorant and ill experienced, even still riddling our most
weathered adventurer with piques.

As though it were a ghastly silhouette, he catches the eyes of it;
running faster than he but slower than bird can fly. It looks
back again and stops. The eyes are the only thing he can make
out, and they saunter a bit closer. Bright, full of wont, full of control.
he embodiment of fear, the rain and thunder mold his
quintessence as his troubled mind panics. He falls.

All at once the eyes lunge on top of him, and berate him.
They ask, “What kind of man are you? You’re not even going
to give it a try?” He does try, however unsuccessfully, to break
her hold on him. He pushes her away but she bounds back effortlessly.
He turns his back, but her hold has created an addiction.
She begins to consume him; every bit of his being,
every bit of his time, and all of his effort. It is no use.
She is meant to win. She is woman, and he is man.


I wrote this originally as a song; however, the chance has come
to make it a poem and I have taken it! Me and a close friend
were drunk in a pasture and decided to write this - it has a lot
of sentimental value...or something

College, A True Account

Trouncing through the flowers,
some tall, some so short.
Smoking grass and floating,
make a line, take a snort.
This is life as I know it,
free flowing love - to the core.
Look at that hot momma,
I hope that she is a whore.
I wanna sit on a cloud,
play my harp, and sing a song;
but my only question is, that
in heaven, will the smoke still
rise in my bong?
And do they play the movie - King Kong?
And can the ladies still wear a thong?
Maybe heaven isn't the right place
for me. So maybe...I'll sit in a pit,
with a harmonica and a lyre, sing the
blues with Elvis and Elvira.

Account of poetry before and after class

I still remember reading on my schedule of classes that 4330 was also called “POETRY,” and I thought that it was a typo. Upon entering the class, I was very scared and wanted to drop; however, I knew that I would probably be forced to drop Spanish again and decided to keep poetry – and I love it. Before this class, I only wrote songs and essays, normally – the songs were funny and the essays were for school. I find myself writing stuff all the time now. I think I had a break through when I was uncertain about who I wanted to win the election, so I wrote a poem about it, just a joking sort of kidding around type of not so seriouso type of poetic work, and I found that I didn’t like either candidate, so I voted for Nader. Now I write a lot of comedic stuff and I also write some serious stuff when I ‘m wondering about the cosmos – those normally stay private. I really enjoy reading and writing poetry now, I think it’s sort of becoming a habit.

College, A True Account (free verse)

Trouncing through the flowers,
some tall, some so short.
Smoking grass and floating,
make a line, take a snort.
This is life as I know it,
free flowing love - to the core.
Look at that hot momma,
I hope that she is a whore.
I wanna sit on a cloud,
play my harp, and sing a song;
but my only question is, that
in heaven, will the smoke still
rise in my bong?
And do they play the movie - King Kong?
And can the ladies still wear a thong?
Maybe heaven isn't the right place
for me. So maybe...I'll sit in a pit,
with a harmonica and a lyre, sing the
blues with Elvis and Elvira.

The Season for Rectangles

How could one speak of big red rectangles
without mentioning the most famous one of all?
It came to me one night on the roof of my
place, or maybe it was in a pasture...
I had a little bit more left, when I
realized what I saw, a beautiful can of
coca-cola with an eye-catching blue straw.
I drank and drank until time stood still,
and everyone else was asleep. I looked up
and saw a clear black sky with candles lit
beneath. The wind was blowing hard and strong,
but I couldn't feel a thing. And then I saw
him, flying there with a sleigh and reindeer, 9.
He flew down to me and gave me another coke,
he said drink up, it'll make you happy.
Suddenly, a polar bear with two kids ran
over to me and drank some of his coke, too.
I laughed and danced, and sang a while -
Santa gave me a high five, the bears ate
him, but not really, just Rudolph. Up and
away the sleigh of 8 went, into the night
sky, but those damn polar bears stayed.
So I ran real fast, into the street; and
promised the bears something to eat, when
fast they ran, a big bright light, and
Coca-Cola delivery truck ran them over.
Ironic, I thought, that the biggest rectangle
of all would save Christmas for us all.

(Excersize 23)

I used to be small, but now I am big.
I used to be tall, but now I am average.
I used to be worried, but now I am laid back.
I used to be hurried, but now I am chill.
I used to be sane, but now I am crazy.
I used to be ignorant, but now I know that I am.
I used to be religious, but now I am not certain.
I used to be rich, but now I am poor.
I used to be empty, but now I am half full.
I used to be nerdy, but now I am “aight.”
I used to be shy, but now I am fun.
I used to be busy, but now I am done.

Response to "The Morning Star Shines," by Peter Riley

Morning star shines
and I'm still out with the girls/lads
God what a disgrace
making my way home in the early morning.

Morning, here it comes.
I'm going home
and I'm taking my loves with me
we'll all walk home together.
I'm going home late
I'm going home at ten. Way!

This particular poem connects with me in two ways. First of all, I
am a college student and I know exactly how it feels to come home
at noon from an all-nighter and have class at 1. I always feel like
a moron when I keep looking at the time as it dwindles. However, I
still love it and I still participate. Furthermore, I wouldn't trade
the late nights for anything, I met my and came to know my best friends
and even my lady after the tower sounds 12.

but...After some thought I started to think that maybe that isn't what
the poem was even talking about. I spent some time at home this weekend
and I got to hang out with my niece (a 3 year old girl) and I started to
wonder how much my life would change if she was my responsibility. I
would not necessarily consider my best friends "my loves." I do consider
my niece my love. "I'm going home at ten..."... Being home at ten is
something that stopped happening a long time ago, but I would gladly
do it for her, how much more would I do it for one of my own... To me,
this poem is about a change from loving good times to being a parent.

Translation of "The High Toned Old Christian Woman," by Wallace Stevens

Poetry is the superlative diction, bitch.
Question every notion of ethical décor
And from that query erect a foundation for
Utopia. Surround the old code with columns
of death and make it untouchable; ergo,
do what the ancients did, shun the other side.
Cause the old guard practitioners of morality to
Be in decent. They become like books, replaced
By movies; and like movies, replaced by Hollywood.
After all, heaven throws a party every time an elderly
Person is defeated. Sing a buoyant song about
Victory, bask in the glory that creates shadows
On the downcast. But then again, who cares,
He said, “I am.” I say the pen is.

The 3rd Bar Seat Address

Last time I sat down and watched TV on Election
Night, the News anchors kept me awake until
I was fully committed to committing suicide. I
Sat down this time and hoped that history would repeat itself.

In what seemed like ten minutes, our fearless leader -
A Cowboy, took control of the key battle ground states.
Hot Damn! That was the sound coming from Crawford. The
Tub of medieval thinking will perpetuate a 20th score more.

With his shotgun and with his speech impediment will he,
Several time over, embarrass us all, again. Take heart, though
Large and full-hearted are his intentions, we must apologize to the
Hairy Arabs and tell them that we don’t really hate them.

Men. Women. Cowboys… Beavers and Ducks – Who cares.
Yikes! A Giant Douche or a Turd Sandwich – you decide 2004.