Poetry Obsession

The other day in creative writing we watched this brilliant film called Poetry in Motion. It was about spoken word poetry. I hate spoken word poetry. I think it's silly, and hollow, and horrifically self-centered.

But you know what?

Now I love it.

I suppose I've just been exposed to vast amounts of truly horrendous spoken word. But watching some of this, I couldn't help but fall the tiniest bit in love. When I grow old, I intend to be like the poets I saw in this video. I will wear a turban, and my eyes will be huge, and instead of a queen sized bed I will fill my tiny city apartment with stacks and stacks of books. And I will write silly morbid funeral ballads about stoners. Except I won't do any of that, I'll do the Emma equivalent, and then the opposite. And there will probably be singing.

One poet in the video was Ted Berrigan. We watched him read the following:

Whitman in Black

For my sins I live in the city of New York
Whitman's city lived in in Melville's senses, urban inferno
Where love can stay for only a minute
Then has to go, to get some work done
Here the detective and the small-time criminal are one
& tho the cases get solved the machine continues to run
Big Town will wear you down
But it's only here you can turn around 360 degrees
And everything is clear from here at the center
To every point along the circle of horizon
Here you can see for miles & miles & miles
Be born again daily, die nightly for a change of style
Hear clearly here; see with affection; bleakly cultivate compassion
Whitman's walk unchanged after its fashion

Sigh. I loved this. Did you love it? If not, I take no issue with saying that something is clearly very wrong with you. In some ways I supposed I'm just beyond thrilled to be moving to New York. But I also like the balance here - there's a delicate chord being struck that involves humor, reverence, love and loathing all at once. And he references Whitman. I mean, come on.

I went home and searched for this poem for a while, and accidentally fell down a Google rabbit-hole into Ted Berrgian land. And there, I found:

Hall of Mirrors

We miss something now

as we think about it

Let's see: eat, sleep & dream, read

A good book, by Robert Stone

Be alone

Knew of it first

in New York City. Couldn't find it

in Ann Arbor, though

I like it here

Had to go back to New York

Found it on the Upper West Side

there

I can't live with you

But you live

here in my heart

You keep me alive and alert

aware of something missing

going on

I woke up today just in time

to introduce a poet

then to hear him read his rhymes

so unlike mine & not bad

as I'd thought another time

no breakfast, so no feeling fine.

Then I couldn't find the party, afterwards

then I did

then I talked with you.

Now it's back

& a good thing for us

It's letting us be wise, that's why

it's being left up in the air

You can see it, there

as you look, in your eyes

Now it's yours & now it's yours & mine.

We'll have another look, another time.

...

Whoa.

I've read so much Ted Berrigan. It makes me happy. I love finding new poets. Loving a poet is an immersive experience. Sometimes, you just find the kind of person who can pull you down into their own little ocean so deep you want to drown. All the colors, and the strange creatures, and the gentle rhythm to rock you back and forth. It's like another world.

(In other news, sometimes I get "caught" in themes in my own writing. Things will crop up in ever piece I write for a month. Eyes was a big one for a while there. Lately it's been drowning. Just listen to the word - drown. There is no sound more fitting to describe that water water everywhere-ness of drowning. I tell you this so you aren't thrown off or concerned by my macabre watery metaphors.)

Alright. One more poem before I'm done. After all, good things come in threes.

Sonnet 34

Time flies by like a great whale
And I find my hand grows stale at the throttle
Of my many faceted and fake appearance
Who bucks and spouts by detour under the sheets
Hollow portals of solid appearance
Movies are poems, a holy bible, the great mother to us
People go by in the fragrant day
Accelerate softly my blood
But blood is still blood and tall as a mountain blood
Behind me green rubber grows, feet walk
In wet water, and dusty heads grow wide
Padré, Father, or fat old man, as you will,
I am afraid to succeed, afraid to fail,
Tell me now, again, who I am