butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 85,768
i have a book, complete with spoken word cd and complimentary dvd... (Lone Wolf)
i'll not listen to/watch them till i've taken my time reading him, as i want to first establish in my own head how they sound to me. a lot of i's and me's in there, granted. but it's not my voice i want to hear, it's the poems'. then, i'll hope not to be disappointed when i listen to dennis' renditions of his writes.
but that's not what this thread is about: it's about there being room for all sorts of poetry, including rhyming. yes, it fell out of favour (and for many good reasons), but i'm finding myself enjoying his writing not only despite the rhyming, but frequently because of it! i read the first few, dipping here and there into the pages ... if it was meant to be read in order, that'll have to wait till i'm ready to do just that; right now i'm in 'sampling' mode ... and while they don't feel like "high art", or "hugely worthy" or "illustrious", they are, quite simply, enjoyable. some of them are written with a simplicity that belies the messages underneath.
i wouldn't say he's 'the best writer i've ever read', not at all, but to have an entire collection, and so far i've liked each i've read, makes this guy someone worth reading and, possibly, emulating with a tinker or three.
here's a taster of his writing:
Winter Sunset
All day the snow had lain between the trees,
The barren, hump-backed hills bereft of life.
A sky bruised black, the sleet flung slant to freeze
The bones of man or beast. And then... a knife!
A white-gold knife to blind the sullen gaze
Of Old Man Winter louring in the West;
Three crimson wounds to set the clouds ablaze,
And guide my weary feet to home and rest.
Business
What poet writes of Business?
We stick to what we know,
We write of dross, of love or loss,
Of roses in the snow.
We turn our backs on Business,
On traders in the pit,
On callous brutes in charcoal siuts
With neither style nor wit.
We mine our inner feelings,
Refining hidden seams,
We tear apart our hearts for art,
And sift among our dreams.
Yet businessmen are dreamers;
If poets scale the heights,
Suits sieve the earth of all its worth
To stake the mineral rights!
Should poets sneer at Business?
I fear it must be so:
If not from spite, I fear they write
Of only what they know.
i'll not listen to/watch them till i've taken my time reading him, as i want to first establish in my own head how they sound to me. a lot of i's and me's in there, granted. but it's not my voice i want to hear, it's the poems'. then, i'll hope not to be disappointed when i listen to dennis' renditions of his writes.
but that's not what this thread is about: it's about there being room for all sorts of poetry, including rhyming. yes, it fell out of favour (and for many good reasons), but i'm finding myself enjoying his writing not only despite the rhyming, but frequently because of it! i read the first few, dipping here and there into the pages ... if it was meant to be read in order, that'll have to wait till i'm ready to do just that; right now i'm in 'sampling' mode ... and while they don't feel like "high art", or "hugely worthy" or "illustrious", they are, quite simply, enjoyable. some of them are written with a simplicity that belies the messages underneath.
i wouldn't say he's 'the best writer i've ever read', not at all, but to have an entire collection, and so far i've liked each i've read, makes this guy someone worth reading and, possibly, emulating with a tinker or three.
here's a taster of his writing:
Winter Sunset
All day the snow had lain between the trees,
The barren, hump-backed hills bereft of life.
A sky bruised black, the sleet flung slant to freeze
The bones of man or beast. And then... a knife!
A white-gold knife to blind the sullen gaze
Of Old Man Winter louring in the West;
Three crimson wounds to set the clouds ablaze,
And guide my weary feet to home and rest.
Business
What poet writes of Business?
We stick to what we know,
We write of dross, of love or loss,
Of roses in the snow.
We turn our backs on Business,
On traders in the pit,
On callous brutes in charcoal siuts
With neither style nor wit.
We mine our inner feelings,
Refining hidden seams,
We tear apart our hearts for art,
And sift among our dreams.
Yet businessmen are dreamers;
If poets scale the heights,
Suits sieve the earth of all its worth
To stake the mineral rights!
Should poets sneer at Business?
I fear it must be so:
If not from spite, I fear they write
Of only what they know.
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