A practice session

[SpermFactory]

I

https://poeticoutlaws.substack.com/...e&r=5pvln&triedRedirect=true&utm_medium=email

I agree with much of this except that it’s too easy to kick a beat down dog or label a cat a pussy or not say what poetry actually is.

It’s individual if you ask me. But that guy won’t ask he doesn't know I exist or that somedays I write with a gun in hand “come and get me” Rambo once said. While Stallone with a pen wrote his poetic First Blood script. And I want to fuck his daughters Bam! Bam! Bam! I love it!

My rebuttal, Poetry is what it is I reckon

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Cold



As in, damn!
The grass is crispy,
Crunches with steps.
Frost is glistening
In the shallow-angle
Sunlight.
Horses
Blow great clouds
Of steamy breath.
Exhaust fumes.
Those long noses
Warm the incoming air.
Bouncy dwarf goats
Make smaller clouds.
They look so fluffy
In their full winter coats.
Everyone is fed more,
More oats,
More hay.
Tasks for the humans,
Keeping food coming,
Keep bellies full.
Keeping ice broken
In water troughs
Keeps humans busy.
Day after day
When this comes
To visit.
Keeping livestock
Living.
Come Spring,
The birds pick up
Shed and discarded
Winter coats
To make nests
For next year’s hatchlings.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

"Melancholy hypochondria. It is a terrible disease: it makes you see things as they are."

~ Gérard de Nerval

Gérard de Nerval died on this day in 1855.

He was a French poet, essayist, and translator whose bohemian life and work captured the spirit of Romanticism while paving the way for Symbolism and Surrealism. Born Gérard Labrunie in Paris, he adopted the pen name "Nerval" and became known for his hauntingly beautiful and deeply personal writing.

“My education had been too free, and my life too vagabond, for me to easily accept a yoke that on many points offended my reason.”

May your restless, perhaps tortured, soul rest at peace.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

I am thankful (I am thinkful, too)



That I don’t live in fear
I have doubt sometimes,
But not that abject empty
Pit of the Unknown
That Hole in the Soul.
I am thankful
That I can distinguish Rhetoric from Truth,
That I know Propaganda when I hear it,
Would that I know liars on sight.
But by their acts, they disclose themselves
And I’m thankful that I’m watching.
I know that some will mock this thought.
I delight that I know them,
For they are the guideposts
For what not to be,
For that from which Allah has spared me.
I am thankful for his mercies
And mostly for his grace.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

It hurts to walk.
No matter, I walk.
It hurts to live,
But I live on.
Most people are awkward
or on beyond trifling,
or stupid, or lazy
. . . no matter.
When going gets hard,
there are other paths.
For the only constant
is change . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

https://scontent-iad3-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.6435-9/69258402_1242729722572712_146493667949936640_n.png?_nc_cat=100&ccb=1-7&_nc_sid=127cfc&_nc_ohc=e5k6jWOZ2LgQ7kNvgHUViSA&_nc_oc=Adhf3BUN1gYe0aRkdTFWDVgrgKRFrRyh_Y_bHKoBmLCxmtVRQxhtAB4uK8yp6AEXW28&_nc_zt=23&_nc_ht=scontent-iad3-2.xx&_nc_gid=Y0Wj49Lwrp2yQYY1TPzM-w&oh=00_AYF1THrZgJrqV9pKub10Ovc0aYO2ysrbIacW2yrIULKl-A&oe=6800ABB4

 

[SpermFactory]

Entertained to Death



Some guy said,
A long time ago,
To be as a little child,
Yeah, I know who,
So don't tell me.
Motherfucker.
If you don’t know,
Then you need to look it up.
I hope to remain
Like that little child.
I go out most mornings
Interested in seeing
What the day looks like.
I try to look
For all the things
That might surprise me.
Like seeing a hot rod
Or some old car
Or piece of machinery
Sometimes even people
Although people can be
Difficult with their load
Of very selfish crap,
And their tiny egos,
But mostly their raging
Inconsideration of anyone
Or anything around them.
Driving out in early morning,
The clouds are fascinating
Decorations for the sky.
Light, shadows, dark spots,
All that poetic bullshit.
Do it sometime.
Go out and look, and
Have your own experience.
When I started doing that,
Life got more interesting,
And therefore more entertaining.
May it continue to entertain me
Until my last morning
Facing Southwest.

I’d like this poem but when I liked the previous poem it deleted someone called 42Below and I don’t like deleting people because every Literotican who ever liked your work deserves to exist and I’ve seen hints of this person’s work and I wonder about them?

 

[Wat_Tyler]

I’d like this poem but when I liked the previous poem it deleted someone called 42Below and I don’t like deleting people because every Literotican who ever liked your work deserves to exist and I’ve seen hints of this person’s work and I wonder about them?

Yeah, that's weird. I miss him. I saw somewhat recently that s/he deleted her/his account. We had had some very worthwhile interactions, and I'm sad to he said poster depart. I do very much wish 42Below the best and hope s/he comes back.


https://scontent-iad3-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.6435-9/69185299_1239719522873732_7731952730742194176_n.jpg?_nc_cat=100&ccb=1-7&_nc_sid=127cfc&_nc_ohc=-QaEELOmKT8Q7kNvgFPvDQ3&_nc_oc=Adnfwpp_UUtE57SfA6ynkfXSrhTbl9SxhnOyOKurYwZW4yX-cDRwMUDX1Zr8W8ybc7E&_nc_zt=23&_nc_ht=scontent-iad3-2.xx&_nc_gid=I-G48l8Rs2Ex9Hq2Ooz8Rg&oh=00_AYE30CwmXS3A8Z8wo3tSNfB1wvNhSDI5BDLZjBX9AXLdyQ&oe=68016E96

 

[Wat_Tyler]

The simple act of opening a bottle of wine has brought more happiness to the human race than all the collective governments in the history of earth.

~ Jim Harrison

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Delight of Being Alone​

I know no greater delight than the sheer delight of being alone.
It makes me realise the delicious pleasure of the moon
that she has in travelling by herself: throughout time,
or the splendid growing of an ash-tree
alone, on a hill-side in the north, humming in the wind.


~ D. H. Lawrence

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Fix this mess . . . .


My dreams, too,
have been out in all the weather.
My dreams are like some of these old cars I drag home.
Some were acquired and left outside too long.
They leaked rainwater in places and it collected,
wearing off the paint
and speeding the decay of the body.
The old car people call it cancer,
that kind of rust.
It's hard to make a good one without
making it from 2 or 3 carcasses.
The dreams change.
Two or three seem to combine.
There are those which rusted away.
Some sit and await the craftsman's hand to pull to pieces,
massage the bits,
and reassemble them
to be used and driven.


Taking them to shows is optional.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

“What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music... And people flock around the poet and say: 'Sing again soon' - that is, 'May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.”

~ Soren Kierkegaard

 

[Angeline]

Welcome back

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even can enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind.

~ Theodore Roethke

 

[Wat_Tyler]

https://poeticoutlaws.substack.com/...e&r=5pvln&triedRedirect=true&utm_medium=email

In the Bookstore​

By: Julia Vinograd​

I went down to the bookstore this evening
and found myself in the poetry section.
But for every thin book of poems
there was a thick biography of the poet
and an even thicker book
by someone who’s supposed to know
explaining what the poet
is supposed to’ve said and why he didn’t.
So you don’t have to waste your time
on the best the writer could do,
the words he fought the darkness and himself for,
the unequal battle with beauty.
Instead you can read comfortably
about the worst the writer could do:
the mess he made of his life,
how he fought with his family,
cheated on his lovers, didn’t pay his debts
and not only drank too much
but all the stupid things
he ever said to the bartender
just before getting 86’d will be printed for you
and they’re just as stupid
as the things everyone says just before getting 86’d.
The books explaining the poet
are themselves inexplicable.
The students who have to read them
cheat.
I left the poetry section
thinking about burning the bookstore down.
Some of a poet’s work comes from his life, ok.
But most of a poet’s work comes
in spite of his life, in spite of everything,
even in spite of bookstores.
So I went to the next section
and bought a murder mystery but I haven’t read it yet.
I find I don’t want to know who done it
and why;
I want to do it myself.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

"One of the virtues of good poetry is the fact that it irritates the mediocre."

~ Theodore Roethke

 

[Wat_Tyler]

*sigh*


We slay ourselves
For our past errors
We beat ourselves
To bloody pulp
No one can hurt us
like we can
And we do
Nor would we
Allow them to
To be kinder to the person
Whom we know the best
And often love the least
Seems to be an act
Which is beyond us
Yet less sentient beasts
Seem quite capable
We begged the diety
To forgive us
Knowing not what we asked
Nor knowing how
To forgive ourselves
We do not want it enough
Yet we need it most of all

 

[_Land]

"One of the virtues of good poetry is the fact that it irritates the mediocre."

~ Theodore Roethke

Virtue

Good poetry
is a blister on the tongue
of the comfortable.

It cuts the crust
from their white bread lines,
lets the red spill
where beige once sat.

It ruins brunch.
Over-salts the metaphor.
Swears in church.

The mediocre call it rude—
but it’s just honest.
Unapologetically raw.

It doesn't rhyme
for your approval.
It arrives
like a blade in the mail.

Let them choke
on its syllables.

That’s the virtue.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

You are always surly
Never pleasant
When you answer the door
Loud and gruff
Claim you’re always working
Treat life and people
As just another annoyance
Alleged maladies
So you must stay in
Okay
I get that
You just left
In your Euro sedan
German no less
With the doughnut
On the right front
It too
Flat as a pancake
I imagine the real tire
Is flat in the trunk
You came out
And looked at it
Then got in the car
And started it
Lovingly backed out
Being very careful
Not to peel
The rubber from the rim
As you left
I noticed your
19 month expired
Temporary dealer tags
Harder work
And more of it
May be in your future

 

[Wat_Tyler]

You must be heard now
So you shriek
Everyone must listen
To your expression
To hear you vent
About your feelings
The things you claim that hurt you
The injustice in your life
How unfair it is
That you cannot control
Every situation
Which presents itself to you?

Please grow up

When I was very little
Mama told me life is tough
She said that it is not fair
That, sometimes, in spite of trying
To do the right thing
To make others happy
That it wasn’t going to work
We’re not judged by our intentions
But only by what we do

Please, do, grow up

Lovers leave us
And hurt us deeply
Often because of
Unmet needs
Unfulfilled wants
General unhappiness
Unachieved expectations
I know, imagine that
Sometimes people don’t like us
And think that they are correct

Please, oh please, do grow up

Jobs cut us loose
Kick us in the wallet
Damage our bank accounts
By cutting off our earning
Financial hardship
Comes upon us
We mistakenly think
Somehow we could control this
They usually do not fire us
For being incompetent
But that happens sometimes
The usual cause of dismissal
Is because we are assholes

Please, for the love of God, grow up

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Empty


You left.
Little warning,
Lots of gone.
Caught
In
My
Throat
Is the call
To the
Universe.
I fear
It listens not.
I pause,
To look
Southwest.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Lowlands


This place is so flat
Well, some small rises
Here and there.
Farmland near the road
Seeing is easy
Until the treeline.
It’s winter
Colors are bleak.
Except the conifers
Pine trees
None too straight
Nor too tall
Tufts at the top
Like headsfull of
Quite green hair
On a child’s
Stick figure person.
Reminding us,
Dormancy, not Death.
Rest, not Ruin.
Mother is dozing
She cooks breakfast soon.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Help



Don’t know what you need
You need something
I can listen
You talk
Stories of what happened
What went wrong
Where the wheels fell off
I hear the hurt
I do know pain
The kind of holes
That cannot be sewn closed
The holes in the soul
Where the cold wind blows
And that most awful feeling
You’re all alone.
No one cares
No one “gets it”
And even if they did
They would either
Tell you what you ought to do
Or they’d wallow in pity with you
And make your own
Self pity all that much worse
You need to vent
But can you change?
Identify the problem
Muster the gumption
The want to, the desire,
No, the need
The need to get better
The desire to be changed
Not easy
I know
Some of it hurts
A lot of it hurts
It did me
Try as I might
I cannot do it for you . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Why can’t I?


The Cars. Why can’t I have you?
We were riding, looking at houses.
You cut my hair, and we talked.
Your headful of red, tall, slender,
Not gorgeous, but very pretty.
Both of us married.
I knew I wasn’t sure
why I was any more.
You, I don’t know.
There was something, and
I didn’t make it up.
I didn’t act on it, either.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Newton Grove



I never did like
How we ended
How we stopped talking
Unsure what happened
Certain of the result
You could be a burden
A weary load at times
And you could be fun
Quite clever, sometimes caustic
Sometimes quite sarcastic
We clicked, for some reason
But you had so much chaos
Going on in your life
Loss, struggle,
Much was not your doing
But I could not shake
The feeling that
You made the least of it.
I failed to walk
That mile in your shoes.
(They were too little for one).
Perhaps it was
Really
All consuming
I could never be sure.
Now you’re gone
After still more loss
You so slight
Your burden so
Wearisome.
Here’s hoping
You have a comfy bed
To lay your exhausted head
Now that you’re Home.