Would You Suggest Writing as a Career? (2 Viewers)

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esart said:
I would not attempt to post my bad poems here. You guys are much much braver than I would have guessed. There's a few good gems here.
Click to expand...

I don't post mine here either, but not necessarily because they're bad. A lot of magazines, I'm finding, consider poems posted in blogs or on sites like this to be published. Just want to save 'em for the mags. As to whether my poems suck or not, I'm reminded of a 1979 Shaun Cassidy TV movie called Like Normal People. Cassidy plays Roger, a mildly retarded young man who writes poetry. When asked whether Roger's poetry is any good, his counselor says, "Some of it is good and some of it is bad. The difference between him and you is that he doesn't know the difference."

Unfortunately, when I look at my stuff, neither do I. :)
 
"Lets share some laugbably bad Buk-type poems of ours."

the fight of your life

the fight
is fifteen rounds
unless you go
down

in the first
five you take
a lot
of big hits

crushing
blows to the head
and body

you might even get knocked
to the canvas
a few times

I got knocked
out of the fucking ring
once

but you get back up
crawl through the ropes
if you have to and

stand up

the next five
you use what you learned

defense
stick and move
put your gloves up
hit him before he hits you

you might start
to sense that you're winning
it feels good
to know what you're doing

but soon
you start to wear down
you fight
on heart alone

I haven't
made it to the last five yet
but they say
this is where

champions are made
 
jmoshea said:
"Lets share some laugbably bad Buk-type poems of ours."
Click to expand...

All right, you're on, it's a rare slow day at work. Here's one that I had published in Chiron Review way back in 1989. At the time, certain poets (Todd Moore comes to mind) were writing about supposedly shocking stuff using very short lines. This was my parody of that:

Groin Death
(for the short-and-savage-line school of poetry)

sal sd look
here my willy's
limp as a homo's
wrist but then spit
a hawker & sd
so what I'm a
man I've handled
worse like ar
bitrary line
breaks no biggie I
'll just rip
off the dick
of the first
guy who crosses
me & sew it
to me w/monofilament
line & I sd
but sal what
am I s'posed
to realize about
life from this
poem & he sd
I don't care
faggot I write
real man poems
& if you don't
like it you
better cover
yr crotch & I
shut up &
felt my balls
crawl up inside
me like landing
gear guarding against
groin larceny
& I thought so
that's poetry
 
I actually liked yours too. When I look back at my older stuff one thing I often think is, "why didn't you just say it simply and get to the point?" Your poem is direct and simple.
 
Bukowskism?

The decision to hold
another, against a rising
tide of discretion
is sometimes, a sudden occurance
drawn with an open glance,
filling the substance of memories
with time well spent.

For it hurts to wander
one's chosen route, alone
above the pleas of the body,
the pleas of heart,
needs of the soul.
We must share in the joy,
the pain, in the value of
meaning as assigned.

We yearn for an ear to understand
situations, coincidence or plans
which, it does not matter.
For with good company
comes this understanding,
this meaning,
purpose.

One who lives, for the sake of lesser
pleasures may never know
happiness. Nor hope another may fill
their void, that leaking wound
of a failed attempt,
a broken grasp at love.

The act of a lonesome death of which few acknowledge,
and less care to know.
 
sorry to post here.
just wrote this. no title.




Love is a Lie.

a Lie, a Lie
and a Lie.
but a
Beautiful
Lie.

A Lie, i want to belieave in.

A Lie of hope,
of endurance.
a lie, that keeps you GOING.


but still a lie.
 
thanks.
i think the message is right.
still, as a poem it's crap.

i may have to work on it.
but i won't.


and still it's a lie!
of some kind.



but thanks! - and THAT's No Lie!
 
I like its simplicity. Go ahead, do a little work on it, I dare ya! It's good already but I'll bet you can make it better.
 
Love is like the fog that burns away with morning sun

What does Hank say in that interview that I think is in "Born into this"? Love is like the fog that burns away with the morning sun, or something like that!:):):) Yeah, it's an illusion, but it sure the hell feels good while it lasts....
 
badly translated poem

old days, long nights
miserable bars, good defeats
all that
and
your shadow over my balls
you're leaning to blow me
you're leaning on your knees
oh, yeah - how many leaps
oh, yeah - how much leap stick and gallons of perfume up to here
allow me to hide your love
to kiss you over a drink or two
to confront you with all the shapes of your existence
1 question 1 answer and 1 love letter in the sand
let the buildings chase the sky
you still got time to meet me
and 1.000 dreams to understand
how low the voice, how low?
how many bullets in the barrel, how many bodies in front of the gun?
how deep the nails, how deep?
how many hits on noon, how many crosses in the after noon?
i've find a light at the end of the cigarette
and memories stuck between the wood on the floor
leave the melancholy to write poems in the dust
dead lovers, broken bones in the teeth of the dog
let the fog swallow the ships
let the rain to piss in the ocean and the city to lay down on the sidewalk
look - the moon is celebrating shooting at the stars
the night pukes drunks on the corner
come out from all the beds you've been in
here's enough room for the longing from your heart
i can not bury this promise
i can't see over this curtain - i must cry too
kilometers, miles and hours
nerves, wounds and dust took me to the harbor
bring your pussy again
bring it closer and drown the love inside
damn it, i'd fuck you 'till the end of your sanity
i'd took you to the end of vanity,
if i could recognize a dock in your belly button.
 
mjp said:
I've seen a few mentions of magazine submissions by users around here so I'll broach this topic - how many of you are writers? If you are a writer, did Bukowski inspire you to start/continue/give up?
Click to expand...


anyway. i supose that the wrong question should never wait for the wright answer.
 
Here is one i wrote about my 9/11 experience.


I told you to take the stairs


that morning after leaving the subway,
after seeing the plume
reach the top of the sky,

down to the street
run to the east
I told you.

The sound of planes made a sea of people
duck their heads in a sickening wave-
I saw this.

And the silence while crossing the bridge
was the worst silence
I've ever heard.


joe
 
It was hot in LA
95 degrees and I sat
at the typer
three cats sat sleeping at my feet
I lit a sher bidi, turned to my right
and took a hit of my German Bernkastel
listening to Mozart while writing
this poem
 
wow David, I think you've got something there...


:rolleyes:
 
I only wanted to see my new avatar

Get to the core
You can't ignore
Too long
This song
Proving your love is wrong.
Junkie whore
You've become a bore
Lighten up
Ditch the heavy load
Take the tour
Before your head explodes.
Unsure
Of all you've seen before
Lights out
Trip the wire
Less is more or less
Unless I confess to causing this mess
Extreme
You and me I mean
Unclean, unseen,
Obscene
Creating havoc with my mind
Unkind, your kind,
Follow the blind,
Straight ahead, down the side,
Collide then bide my time
Drinking, wine, moon shine,
Eyes left
See the theft
Such a steal, unreal,
What were you thinking?
Conceal your feel
Stifle the peel of laughter, and what comes after,
Going down to the rafter
The ever after is happy
To change the tune
Put the moon to bed, just
Some things are best left unsaid,
Some words are best left unread
Empty head unfed led
Astray, we hope and we pray
For your return from the sunset,
Well met.
Torn nets let us swim away, far away,
Yesterday comes
Thumbs uplift,
Miffed at the one that got away,
Sting Ray, he deserves
Cold serve, curvaceous, spacious,
Cheddar Gorgeous
Remind me how it used to be
Three free to unwind the wind,
For I have sinned,
Bless me Father
Or would you rather have captained
The lifeboat, still afloat
Let me have another go,
With the slow-flow, dead cold, soul sold,
Let it all unfold.



Strictly off the record,
My mind's eye wonders,
Wanders, random as the snail,
She never fails to seduce
Reduce to tears,
Leering boys wide-eyed and bushy-tailed,
Impaled on the turntable
Aware of his label.
She won't play ball,
Rarely does she do anything for you,
Unless a caress turns the air blue
And you rue the missed chance
Solitary dance
Enhance the last waltz,
Run a mile, whence you came
Anywhere will do.
Off the record repeated
Far from radar
Sonic silence
Except a drip, drip, dropping
Finally stopping the hip-hopping
Lisp on the tip of my tongue,
Well hung out to wet the Special K
Diet, Wyatt Earp
Usurps from the cup of gloom,
Ruined too soon
Return on the spoon,
Belt up your bicep
And try stepping onto the moon.

Guess the mess I'm in,
Take a look at my pin
Holed eyes,
Listen to my din and
Surmise the lies untold
Behold the unfolded arms
Please help me calm
No more alarm on the beautiful expression,
Impression no less than the lesson
Learnt
Burnt matches
Catches fire still
Be still
Take a pill until
Dawn mourns the strict,
Pricked skin
Deep within
Where have you been.
Where am I going, knowing all
Or nothing but sin.



Her lips glisten
I begin to kiss them
With my eyes closed,
Moisten her rose
I rise to greet the anticipated treat
And our eyes meet
A look shared, discreet,
A fleeting glimpse
Ages since my passion last stirred
Song for the bird
Takes off from the wire,
Wings beat with desire as my heart sores.
Gun for hire
Shoot from the hip-hop trip,
Smoking barrel
Cool cred apparel,
No news is no fuse
Me to excuse
You to confuse the genuine
Seriously rich, too bad
I'm no good
Understood the confusion
Must be an illusion
Don't suffer fools gladly,
Pick up where left off the hook
You've got the look of the obscene
Machine's ghost,
Make the most of who's been
Seen around town.
Hold down that frown
My fear is near
It will all become clear one day,
When I'm far away
They'll say, he was a good man
How come he was nothing in his short time here.



I pray for silence,
Peace, inner sanctum,
Free from every
Being, all-seeing, all dancing,
No second-chancing,
Leave me alone
I want to be alone
Completely at one with time begun,
Unfold, untold, nothing to hold
On to, not that we want to,
Our desire has sunk in the mire,
Of bottomless dire, mundane, grey,
Same melancholic game,
Shame,
Rain,
Sleet,
Shit,
Unseat,
Reign,
Wit's end
God send,
When men learn to fend off the wrath
Of the collar and the cloth,
Froth at the mouth of rivers run South,
Now it must be the light of the heat
Of the night sky is black and my
Beating, fleeting, course flow go slow
Mojo rising, falling, calling,
You to join me
Free at last.
Cast off one more time,
Out of line,
Ignore the sign,
Turn to choose the right way,
Some might stay,
Others will go the wrong way
But only in their in-turned minds
Their kind will never find the gift of the blind.
The fortune favours braves,
Whilst waivers wave
And savers cave
In to begin the long, arduous
Task they've been given, allotted,
Dotted along the way there may
Be some relief from the thief
Amongst his own,
Disown the clown
From the unhidden contempt
That he tempts my violence
I choose instead silence
Is golden, though he will beholden to me,
Wait and see.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
I could never get into or understand poetry because I was never sure what should rhyme or where in the poem it was suposed to rhyme. Then I read Bukowski and it made sense.

Rhymes are for song lyrics and raps. So right now as I write this there is a very long poem -or whatever- above this post and I bet it will be gone soon.

It could be titled fingernails on the chalkboard. Oh yeah go ahead Fuck my opinion. I am an expert.
 
After we get done with the opinions, we should probably have a cigarette.

"Do you smoke after sex?"
"I don't know, I never looked."

:eek:
 
realising only fucks things up

i used to fuck
and fight
and i felt
and one of my first
jobs
after the inevitable
expulsion
from school
was in a tax office.

i hardly knew what
tax meant
and they sent me
to file
but as i was
pretty much
illiterate
and only knew
the alphabet
piecemeal
i shoved the files in
any-old-how
and cursed the friend
who landed me in
such shit.

maybe i had
saved
some poor bastard
from the evil claws
of the dreaded
tax inspector?

no, realising only
fucks things
up.



i wouldn't suggest a career.
 
Ok, I'll accept the jokes on me, but still. . .

I'm still overlooking the clue.

Since I've not been around for awhile I figured I missed some interesting ousting of someone. Perhaps not. Fuck it. Nevermind.

Guess I was right but certainly not in the way I thought I was.

lol is right Padre.
 
cirerita said:
I know poems are not usually allowed here, but this is the first time I ever post a poem on this forum...

I know that some of you might think, "C'mon, another 'I-love-my-kid' poem? Why don't you grow up?" Well, that might be true, but I used to think that way a few years ago. You know, you can understand things as concepts but you can also experience them. And it's not the same, is it?
Click to expand...

Outtasite cirerita. this one touched me. my girl just turned one on Saturday. I know just what you mean when you mention the concept vs. experience. as said, i'm well aware that this is no place to pimp our writings (so please let this one slide :). in keeping with the subject i thought i'd share one on the topic during my 'concept' phase. i wrote it a couple weeks before she was born. there's simply nothing better than parenthood.

changing stations

had for breakfast
some humble pie.
for lunch, a black eye.
for dinner,
hearty portions of boxed wine.
nothing on tv.
the radio plays
paperthin music
grooveless, three-chord,
harmony laden,
overly produced, precisely marketed,
corporately packaged,
one-serving-size-diet-lite-no trans fat
empty jingles not worth swallowing or shitting.

my lady with dirty feet
lays by the pool,
baby in womb,
sun on her skin,
book in her hand,
tattoos fading,
and I think of my unborn daughter
dancing on the lawn someday
with bare-feet,
flowers in the garden,
laughter from the birds,
as our cat stares
out the window
and knows the secret.

I wipe away the cobwebs
from that dusty old lamplit place deep inside
me.
that long vacant hotel, boarded windows, candles long melted,
DO NOT ENTER signs
and yellow tape.

that place, that void
in the attic of my heart
where my little funny looking ornery guardian angel used to
live.
giving me 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8 lives.
and on the 9th, he handed it out to me, gave me a sneer,
and took a leap from the side window
and vanished.


now I sit,
hand more careful
eyes more vulnerable
the castles walls a bit softer
my guard lowered just enough to duck the occasional jab
and
finally ready to give the shirt off my back.

I am the King of the Forest
one claw retracted,
the other wiping
a crawling ant off the leg
of my lady (a tigress to the 10th degree)
and I briefly
expose my fangs
in easy pleasure
as I think of cat secrets, catnaps,
and happiness.
of home-cooked meals,
of three day weekends,
and of drifting off to sleep
cooled by the electric
fan in the window
dreaming of my daughter
dancing on the lawn someday
with her dirty bare-feet

my cat stares out the window
and salivates
at the laughing birds

I roll over and go to sleep
happy, tamed, and still the King of the Forest
 
I can feel the danger of change
within myself, and the eyes of others
already lost?
As when the note goes flat
causing every witness, at once
to remember thoughts,
and shift their weight
anxiously, in a coordinated movement.

Or could it be true, that we may survive
intact, retaining only
this feeling,
a vibration shared by you too?

Oh, there is stranger.
 
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