"Flatulence" or "What is Poetry?"

Recently there has been discussion on this board about the merit of one word poems. The debators may hold strong views but obviously the real issue is not how many letters constitute a poem, but rather, what is poetry itself.

Bill Knott (aka Saint Gerauld) wrestled with just this issue several decades ago. His poem is doubly interesting because of it's use of flatulence as a debating tool, much to the chagrin of a literotica poet (who shall remain nameless, but who is solely responsible for darkmaas and Bill being introduced.)

CORPSE AND BEANS, OR WHAT IS POETRY?

I sit at my table and sometimes the question of poetry crosses my mind
For example
The man who one night ate a big plate of beans
Then got tired
Of everything and killed himself
Next day at the burial
Everyone said, What's that noise?

Was it poetry?

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Please use this thread to expand on the argument given above or explore Bill's vision of the universe. (No need to further expound on flatulence.)

I remain respectfully,

darkmaas.

Bill Knott (aka Saint Gerauld) wrestled with just this issue several decades ago. His poem is doubly interesting because of it's use of flatulence as a debating tool, much to the chagrin of a literotica poet (who shall remain nameless, but who is solely responsible for darkmaas and Bill being introduced.)

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I see you've been reading. Now I don't have to send you that poem tomorrow.

Perhaps you recall that some months ago I introduced here the concept of one-letter poetry. To wit:

Zen Poem

B


Query Poem

Y


Acquiesence Poem

K

Pirate Poem

R

And so forth. I'm sure there's someone out there who would call these poems. I might at least that first one--the zen poem--because that one sound conjures up a world of imagery for me. On the other hand, if someone else thought it a bunch of bs, that would be ok with me, too. So maybe this means I just *really* get the concept of a zen poem. LOL.


Ange

P.S. Here's another Bill Knott poem I like.

Death

Going to sleep, I cross my hands on my chest.
They will place my hands like this.
It will look as though I am flying into myself.

Let me hear it

Angeline said:

[...]

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Just tell me Angeline that my

                            san francisco blues

is "flatulence" and not poetry.

Just tell me Angeline that my

san francisco blues

is "flatulence" and not poetry.

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I would not use the terms "flatulence" and "poetry" as opposites. Were it not for a certain literotica poet (who shall remain nameless, but who started this thread, lol), these two erm creations would not be related in my thoughts. I might point out to this same poet (who shall continue to remain nameless) that Bill Knott's poem does not legitimize this notion for me, and that the poem *I* used to introduce ol' namemaas, er nameless, to Bill Knotts was decidedly ungassy:

Poem by Saint Gerauld

I am one man, worshipping silk knees,
I write these lines to cripple the dead,
to come up halt before the living:

I am one man, I run my hand over
your body, I touch the secret vibes
of your earth, I breathe your
heartbeat, Naomi, and always

I am one man alone at night. I fill my hands
with your dark hair
and offer it to the hollows of your face. I am one man,
searching,
alone at night
like a beacon of ashes.

Anyway, I think "green butterflies" is an excellent image because it is perfectly visual--I know exactly what you mean by that, but I have to admit I prefer your Sinus Blues, perhaps because I can relate.

Originally posted by Angeline   [ugliness removed]

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Now to the point:

Anyway, I think "green butterflies" is an excellent image because it is perfectly visual--I know exactly what you mean by that,

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green butterflies is one of my over twenty year old contributions to English and to poetry. For instance streetful is another -- it stands for "city homeless", while standard "homeless" includes "country homeless". I've introduced both in the same poem in 1981/1982.

But in san francisco blues these green butterflies suddenly got a new quality, they harmonize with chinatown and chinese food. Everything gets amplified. The result is exotic blues, truly American-Chinese blues which feels like vegies.

but I have to admit I prefer your Sinus Blues, perhaps because I can relate.

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That's your privilege. I like it too. However "s.fr.bl" is extra original, introduces a new tone.

BTW, Angeline, you think that you plus your dark mass are very clever. It's primitive what the two of you are doing here. You're not a kid from 5th grade to be proud of such "achievement". I am addressing you as your friend. Remember that three can play such a game but it is beneath me and it should be beneath you too. Either truly ignore me or act straight. Don't try to have it both ways. It's not as clever as you think. It's cowardish -- show some class.

Here is the poem from 1981/2, mentioned above. (I have not posted it on Literotica).


    misturn of fortune





                                        (1)


        the last green butterflies out of my pocket
        light i go up a down going escalator
        dizzy i go up the highway of rain
        crazy i go up in black smoke

        only yesterday my skyscrapers were
        crossing the street on a red light
        i didn't sit tight in my suburb how dumb
        today you can call me a bum


                                        (2)


        before i die streetful and homeless
        when air will bite my lungs
        will i care that thoughts in my hat
        used to be sharper than frost

        when sleeping in a forgotten corner
        of a full of abuses station
        hoping for heat to be turned on
                                                        on that night
        will i care that my heart
        used to be warmer than sun

        on that night streetful and homeless
        will i die "happy" remembering that
        on the sunny side of Earth
        each moment was equally rotten


                                        (3)


        you've listen to me
        with your mouth hanging open
        the payment is due
        now spare me a quarter



Wlodzimierz Holsztynski
        1982~1988
 

BTW, Angeline, you think that you plus your dark mass are very clever.

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His nickname is darkmaas, Senna, and if I think that either of us is clever, I assure you it has nothing to do with you or your threads. You're not in the 5th grade either you know. Do you think saying "your dark mass" is very clever? I don't. I think it's childish.

It's primitive what the two of you are doing here.

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What exactly are we "doing here"? Are you suggesting that anyone besides you who starts a thread on one-word or shorter poems or any debate related to their legitimacy as poetry is "playing a game"? I'm sorry, but that makes no sense to me. If you go back through the threads on this board, you will find that I did indeed introduce this idea of one-letter poems some months back. I wasn't trying to "achieve" anything other than to respond to darkmaas' post. Why should that bother you?

I am addressing you as your friend.

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I suggest you look at some of your previous comments about me--a good example would be the ones about me supporting Sadam Hussein's murderous sons because I was against a war with Iraq--as evidence of your "friendship."

Remember that three can play such a game but it is beneath me and it should be beneath you too.

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I'm not interested in playing games with you or anyone else here. I have better ways to spend my time. Don't be so paranoid. And if you find all this "beneath you," as you say, then don't get into it in the first place.

Either truly ignore me or act straight. Don't try to have it both ways. It's not as clever as you think. It's cowardish -- show some class.

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Senna, take a look at this:

Just tell me Angeline that my

san francisco blues

is "flatulence" and not poetry.

You asked me a question and I answered it. I answered it honestly and politely. I don't have you on "ignore" status now, no, but I choose not to respond to your posts because I think you rant and browbeat people who disagree with you and, frankly, I don't want any part of that. If you ask me a reasonable question--which you did--I'll respond reasonably, but I have no desire to argue with you. If you harrass me I simply won't respond. You can call it cowardice or classlessness or whatever you like; I think it's common sense. I respect your right to defend your opinions but if you're spoiling for a fight, look elsewhere. You won't get it from me no matter how big of a tantrum you throw.

Finally darkmaas is my dear friend, true, but he started this thread on his own. If you have something you want to address to him, then you should do it directly and not put me in the middle.

Originally posted by Angeline I prefer your Sinus Blues

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"shower blues"

Darkmaas Apologizes for Breaking Wind

I was at first amused at the turn this thread had taken but alas, the sense of fun seems to have evaporated.

I have occasionally mentioned the notion of a private conversation in a public forum and I am sorry Senna, but you have become enmeshed in what was a private conversation embedded in a public thread. The original post and Angeline's reply had nothing whatsoever to do with you.

Let me tell the background story and afterwards we can all laugh, share a virtual nosh and return this little piece of the poetic universe to it’s normal state of harmony and bliss. It all began a week or so ago when Dr. Mabeuse started a thread called "Western Wind". I was in a churlish mood and thought the poem was pretty pedestrian, in spite of Angeline’s effusive response.

Suddenly a parody popped fully formed into my head, and knowing the good doctor to have a certain wit and assuming he had a thick skin, I threw caution to the winds, as it were, and posted “Broken Wind”. My flatulent reworking of the original was soundly ignored and the sweet Angeline, in a private conversation, explained that she found it in bad taste. She pointed out that this was my second foray into flatulence as a metaphor, (the first being "Foaf", that I had dedicated to Rybka), and that if I wasn’t careful I would become unfit for polite company. She implied gently that I should remove the offensive stanza but I feigned a thick skull and ignored her subtle reasoning.

Still with me?

Since then, poetic flatulence has from time to time entered into our conversation as I attempt to live down the shame of offending her highly developed sense of aesthetics.

On Wednesday, by way of broadening my poetic repertoire, she suggested I read a fellow called Saint Geraud. I looked him up and found he was really Bill Knott and the second poem I stumbled across was “Corpse and Beans”.

Well, this was too much. My chance for revenge! I must confess to the consumption of several post-prandials so, perhaps my judgment was mildly impaired, but I decided to post the poem and await Angeline’s humble admission that there was indeed a place in poetic imagery for the humble fart.

I reasoned that I couldn’t just dump the poem, steaming, onto a thread. I needed a hook to hang it on, and chose to build it discretely into a discussion of the meaning of poetry. OT and Senna’s recent tiff about one word poems was fresh in my mind so I started with that.

Now, we all know that Angeline is clever. She knew better than to publicly comment on flatulence and chose instead to comment on the notion of short poetry. Foiled again!

You can imagine my horror as I watched Senna take umbrage at having his poetry compared to that of Bill Knott. I apologize for the ambiguity that led him to that assumption.

So I’m sorry Senna. The sad truth is that although Angeline and I talk frequently, it’s almost never about you, and certainly never in the same breath as “les malodeurs”.

Apologetically,

darkmaas.

I must confess to the consumption of several post-prandials ...

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I should have known. Do I have to fly over to Lugubria and take your post-prandials away?

...Angeline and I talk frequently, it’s almost never about you, and certainly never in the same breath as “les malodeurs”.

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My dear man, could we clarify that an infinitesimal (note I did not say *intestinal*) fraction of our conversation concerns “les malodeurs”? And that I am *never* the one who introduces it? I almost never choose to discuss foul smells. It puts me in mind of the times my mother would pull something from the fridge, hand it to me, and say "Smell this. I think it's bad." Why in god's name would I want to do that? lol.


Not that I'm prudish in the least but, as you know, my interests are more cerebral.

Thank you.
A.

You're not a kid from 5th grade to be proud of such "achievement".

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It's Grrreeaattt

OOhhh, I'm a poet.

karmadog said:

It's Grrreeaattt

OOhhh, I'm a poet.

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Just an ass.

Early Saturday morning after a long night of scratching my ass and sniffing my finger (not really) I happen upon a fart thread. Now I feel inspired to let poetry build up inside me until it quietly seeps out in a grocery store aisle, leaving me to scurry away from it before anyone points an accusing finger in my direction and yells, "Hey, that lady just dumped a poem, steaming, onto the aisle!" Darkmaas, may I borrow this: "I reasoned that I couldn’t just dump the poem, steaming, onto a thread." Don't ask why. I simply know I'll have use for it some day.

WickedEve said:

Early Saturday morning after a long night of scratching my ass and sniffing my finger (not really) I happen upon an fart thread. Now I feel inspired to let poetry build up inside me until it quietly seeps out in a grocery store aisle, leaving me to scurry away from it before anyone points an accusing finger in my direction and yells, "Hey, that lady just dumped a poem, steaming, onto the aisle!" Darkmaas, may I borrow this: "I reasoned that I couldn?t just dump the poem, steaming, onto a thread." Don't ask why. I simply know I'll have use for it some day.

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-----------------------------------------------------

Eve,

While I don't do "challenges," I have been reading this thread with humorous interest, so much so that I have written a poem, for my own pleasure, that now cries out to be displayed at your unintended behest. You did say:

"Now I felt inspired to let poetry build up inside me until it quietly seeps out in a grocery store aisle . . ."

Okay, here's my poem, and hope you like it, or if not, dump it in a grocery store aisle:


Ass Morass

A poet's grandiose theme,

Some writer's superlative scheme -

Simply a mass of ass morass


Meandering in dimly witted

Organs where some dwell in extreme

Rigidly pious by their means,

Asserting their love of being by

Silly means, flatulently birthing

Stuffed brains, inflated and exploding.


Hope this is somewhat of what you meant, Eve. Or, if not, what the heck, I may find it in the grocery store (*snif-snif*).

cb9

P.S. I did really like the one word poem that Marie2394 wrote as she had it very nicely coordinated with the title. It was audacious, and inventive. But then who am I to like or dislike, I'm just a street urchin.

Now I feel inspired to let poetry build up inside me until it quietly seeps out in a grocery store aisle, leaving me to scurry away from it before anyone points an accusing finger in my direction and yells, "Hey, that lady just dumped a poem, steaming, onto the aisle!"

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Doesn't everyone's poetry build up inside and either quietly seep out or, well, explode from them? I think, Eve, this is a new school of poetic criticism. Flatualism. Lord knows I've written poems I've wanted to scurry away from before anyone notices and says "My lord did *you* write that? It stinks!"

By the way, I was at the bookstore Thursday night looking at magazines and this man next to me (and he did not appear to be an ill-mannered slob, but was actually pretty young and really cute and--god, I'm starting to sound like karmadog), well he um...I had to leave rather quickly, fanning the air with my copy of American Poetry Review.

Why do I see a poem challenge coming of all this? darkmaas, I hope you're happy now, deaar.

Eve said:

Darkmaas, may I borrow this: "I reasoned that I couldn’t just dump the poem, steaming, onto a thread." Don't ask why. I simply know I'll have use for it some day.

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For you Eve, anything steamy that's mine, I would be happy to share.

Respectfully,

darkmaas.

As my nine-year-old aptly says, "He who smelt it, dealt it."

(And his 11-year-ol brother says, cryptically, "He who made the rhyme, commits the crime.")


Laughing,


Cordelia

Angeline said:

darkmaas, I hope you're happy now, deaar.

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Yes, small things amuse...

Sorry to drag you through the steamies.

Respectfully,

darkmaas.

Cordelia said:

As my nine-year-old aptly says, "He who smelt it, dealt it."

(And his 11-year-ol brother says, cryptically, "He who made the rhyme, commits the crime.")

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From the mouths of babes...

Your 11 year old should be in or about grade 5. The thought of criminal poets loose on the streets of Nevada...

Respectfully,

darkmaas

Enough of This Didactic Scatology!

The Fool has posted the final word. Go read the "new poems" thread for today, and stop the crappy humor!

As always...

You're right Rybka.

darkmaas moves that this thread return to the works of Bill Knott.

All in favour?

Motion carried!

apologies to darkmaas

Just an ass.

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Which makes me perfectly equipped to be a flatulent poet.

Which makes me perfectly equipped to be a flatulent poet.

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Nice doggie. Pat, pat.

Of Poetry & the Potential for Greatness

Which makes me perfectly equipped to be a flatulent poet.

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Let me tally up the score.

Kdog, Angeline, Rybka, Cordelia, Eve, Cloudbrst9, Senna, myself and of course Bill Knott. Poets all,
and no doubt capable of great ...

Good night darkmaas.