Poetry Extravaganza

Just a few of my favorite poems…

Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)

I mentioned Sandburg in last month’s grindy, and after doing so, checked out one of his books at the library. I knew the guy could write, but now I’m a huge fan. His poetry is extremely effective: he has a way of making children and adults alike think, feel, and take notice. Sandburg also gets bonus points for being one of Marilyn Monroe’s fondest friends (see below).

Who Am I? (Elusive Truth)

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My fingertips are in the valleys and shores of universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
reach my hands and play with pebbles of destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading “Keep Off.”
My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive in the universe.

Is Wisdom a Lot of Language? (Failure to Communicate)

Apes, may I speak to you a moment?
Chimpanzees, come hither for words.
Orangoutangs, let’s get into a huddle.
Baboons, lemme whisper in your ears.
Gorillas, do you hear me hollerin’ to you?
And monkeys! monkeys! get this chatter–

For a long time men have plucked letters
Out of the air and shaped syllables.
And out of the syllables came words
And from the words came came phrases, clauses.
Sentences were born–and languages.
(The Tower of Babel didn’t work out–
it came down quicker than it went up.)

Misunderstandings followed the languages,
Arguments, epithets, maledictions, curses,
Gossip, backbiting, the buzz of the bazoo,
Chit chat, blah blah, talk just to be talking,
Monologues of members telling other members
How good they are now and were yesterday,
Conversations missing the point,
Dialogues seldom as beautiful as soliloquies,
Seldom as fine as a man alone, a woman by herself
Telling a clock, “I’m a plain damn fool.”

Read the dictionary from A to Izzard today.
Get a vocabulary. Brush up on your diction.
See whether wisdom is just a lot of language.

Carl Sandburg & Marilyn Monroe (Drinking, laughing, stretching, dancing)

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

Baudelaire was an influential French poet who received much criticism for his “scandalous” subject matter (lesbianism, corruption, etc.). He was convicted of offenses against religion and public morality, and once stated that, “men and women know from birth that all pleasure lies in evil.” So you know I’ve gotta like the guy, and the poem below is one of my favorites.

Get Drunk! (Exhilaration)

One should always be drunk.
That’s all that matters; that’s our one imperative need.
So as not to feel time’s horrible burden
that breaks your shoulders and bows you down,
you must get drunk without ceasing.

But with what?
With wine, poetry, or virtue,
as you choose.
But get drunk.

And if, at some time, on steps of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the bleak solitude of your room,
you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,
ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,
all that which flees,
all that which groans,
all that which rolls,
all that which sings,
all that which speaks,
ask them, what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,
they will all reply:

“It is time to get drunk!
So that you may not be the martyred slaves of time, get drunk.
Get drunk, and never pause for rest!
With wine, poetry, or virtue, as you choose!”

Charles Bukowski (1920–1994)

Some people like to dismiss Bukowski for various superficial reasons, but I chose him as my “Speak no Evil Metal Monkey” because he’s one of the most important writers of the 20th century. He can be vulgar, but at his core, Bukowski was true, loving, prolific, and a damn good writer. Here are a few of my favorites…

The Best Love Poem I Can Write at the Moment (What is complete love?)

(Time for my shouts outs to some people I’ve enjoyed discussing Bukowski with: Robin, Raff, Fumiko, JR, Eve & Marshall. If any of you read this, please share a Bukowski favorite of yours).

Bluebird (Toughness)

There’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see you.

There’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that he’s
in there.

There’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales in Europe?

There’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be sad.

Then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little in there
I haven’t quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
with our secret pact
and it’s nice enough to make a man weep
but I don’t weep,
do you?

Dinosauria, We (Born into this)

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

Like many great poets of the past, Shelley died at a young age. Less than a month before his 30th b-day, he “drowned” while sailing in a sudden storm. Many believe that he was murdered for political reasons. Shelley was frequently censured due to his radical views and had been shot at just days before “drowning.” As you can see in the poem below, he was an advocate for social justice and he didn’t pull any punches.

England In 1819 (This oppression will not stand, man)

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king

Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow

Through public scorn, mud from a muddy spring

Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know

But leech-like to their fainting country cling

Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow

A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field

An army, which liberticide and prey

Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield

Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay

Religion Christless, Godless… a book sealed

A Senate: Time’s worst statute unrepealed

Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may

Burst to illumine our tempestous day.

Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera (1859-1895)

The first stanza of the poem below was recited in the film Before Night Falls (2000: Javier Bardem, Johnny Depp, Julian Schnabel). I remember going “Whoa!” and then rewinding to write it down on a piece of paper. The English version that I have chosen (first stanza from the movie, the rest from a google book search) is not an exact translation of Najera’s original, but instead was altered to look and sound more poetic.

I find this poem (the first part especially) to be quite beautiful, but I also believe it’s difficult to fully appreciate poetry that was originally written in your non-native language. Think about how many written works (in every language imaginable) have been (at least partially) butchered due to a poor translation of one line, or even just one WORD. So while I think this English translation is great, I’ve included the original as well.

For Then (Death)

I want to die at the end of the day
in the high seas
with my face towards the sky
when it seems like agony is just a dream
and the soul, a bird ascending in flight

Let there be no sad tears as I draw my last breath,
At one and alone with the sky and the sea,
No sobbing, nor prayer, nor laments of death
I only would hear the deep waves cover me

To die when the bright glow of twilight is fading,
and catches the waves in its last net of light
to be like that sun as its luminous shading
expires and is lost in the arms of the night

To die, and die young, before time has destroyed
the delicate fabric illusion has spun
when life can still say: “I am yours” but the void
Of a final echo tells us death has won!

Para Entonces

Quiero morir cuando decline el día,
en alta mar y con la cara al cielo,
donde parezca sueño la agonía
y el alma un ave que remonta el vuelo.

No escuchar en los últimos instantes,
ya con el cielo y con el mar a solas,
más voces ni plegarias sollozantes
que el majestuoso tumbo de las olas.

Morir cuando la luz retira
sus áureas redes de la onda verde,
y ser como ese sol que lento expira;
algo muy luminoso que se pierde.

Morir, y joven; antes que destruya
el tiempo aleve la gentil corona,
cuando la vida dice aún: “Soy tuya,”
aunque sepamos bien que nos traiciona.