Poetry.
Poetry is always there to replenish me when I need it.
It can be grabbed at any time and injected like a much needed medicine to a quaking man.
Charles Bukowski introduced me to the versatility of poetry. He was dead at the time, but he didn't seem to complain about it.
Regarding poetry, Bukowski once said in an interview (and I’ll have to paraphrase since I couldn’t find the correct track out of my albums of his work)….Poetry is a kind of fancified way to scream a little in a self indulgent style.
But that’s what’s nice about it. You discover different poets and their styles and you sort out a menu to your own tastes. How do you want to feel? Read and invoke that state.
My personal menu is: Bukowski, for real life grit and unflinching truth.
Kerouac, for a verbal rollercoaster that may or may not end when you get back to the boarding area and it may continue backwards or descend down through the floor to a whole new ride.
Rimbaud, whets my appetite for luscious passion and thick dark ruby red blood wine on the lips of my lady.
Sylvia Plath, can form verbal pops and truncated stops that are fun to read, like all great poetry, out loud.
Whitman paints great visions and Yeats offers light fare for mystic minds.
Pound is good in doses to be thought about later and Herman Melville’ s, “Moby Dick” is NOT poetry, but I swear it can be read aloud and eaten one bite at a time like a hearty meal and you’d swear it was poetry by the end.
So since, my friend pointed out that it’s National Poetry month, I thought I’d give the gift of referring some of my favorites so that they may be enjoyed by others.
I once performed on a reality television show, “Steve Harvey’s Big Time!” (on the notable network, “The WB”) competing for $10, 000. I was performing one of the variety acts we did in for the Crazy Horse, Paris. The shoot lasted all day and was exhausting. The attitude was degrading, as you would expect being “judged” by Pauly Shore. Our professional world renowned act ,which was the “taste” of festivals and shows in Europe, was being called, “The stupidest thing I’ve ever seen” by the dregs of circa 1990’s even 80’s television “personalities”.
At the shows peak, I was in the position to win the $10, 000, but I was exhausted, irritable, and consoling myself with the warm thought that EITHER I was about to win $10,000 OR I was about to be released back to my hotel room to regain my soul.
I was ousted by a man with firecrackers strapped to his chest and I celebrated my release by jumping down off the couch ( since I was a miniature Elvis Presley) and made my exit mouthing curse words and derogatory epithets against the successor and all witnesses laughing in all directions.
I was free and in much need for quality soul replenishment.
The town car drove me back to the beautiful hotel room at the Kodak Theater where they hold the Academy Awards every year, and I drank in the sweet filling meat of Jack Kerouac. Page for page as I read I was reminded of the beauty of life and it’s depth. And page for page I was baptized back into the real world. My contribution being degraded was just a night terror. Passing like a few dark clouds on a sunny day.
And poetry was there when I needed it most to remind me that I am more than any one project. Thanks poetry. You made me whole again.
It can be grabbed at any time and injected like a much needed medicine to a quaking man.
Charles Bukowski introduced me to the versatility of poetry. He was dead at the time, but he didn't seem to complain about it.
Regarding poetry, Bukowski once said in an interview (and I’ll have to paraphrase since I couldn’t find the correct track out of my albums of his work)….Poetry is a kind of fancified way to scream a little in a self indulgent style.
But that’s what’s nice about it. You discover different poets and their styles and you sort out a menu to your own tastes. How do you want to feel? Read and invoke that state.
My personal menu is: Bukowski, for real life grit and unflinching truth.
Kerouac, for a verbal rollercoaster that may or may not end when you get back to the boarding area and it may continue backwards or descend down through the floor to a whole new ride.
Rimbaud, whets my appetite for luscious passion and thick dark ruby red blood wine on the lips of my lady.
Sylvia Plath, can form verbal pops and truncated stops that are fun to read, like all great poetry, out loud.
Whitman paints great visions and Yeats offers light fare for mystic minds.
Pound is good in doses to be thought about later and Herman Melville’ s, “Moby Dick” is NOT poetry, but I swear it can be read aloud and eaten one bite at a time like a hearty meal and you’d swear it was poetry by the end.
So since, my friend pointed out that it’s National Poetry month, I thought I’d give the gift of referring some of my favorites so that they may be enjoyed by others.
I once performed on a reality television show, “Steve Harvey’s Big Time!” (on the notable network, “The WB”) competing for $10, 000. I was performing one of the variety acts we did in for the Crazy Horse, Paris. The shoot lasted all day and was exhausting. The attitude was degrading, as you would expect being “judged” by Pauly Shore. Our professional world renowned act ,which was the “taste” of festivals and shows in Europe, was being called, “The stupidest thing I’ve ever seen” by the dregs of circa 1990’s even 80’s television “personalities”.
At the shows peak, I was in the position to win the $10, 000, but I was exhausted, irritable, and consoling myself with the warm thought that EITHER I was about to win $10,000 OR I was about to be released back to my hotel room to regain my soul.
I was ousted by a man with firecrackers strapped to his chest and I celebrated my release by jumping down off the couch ( since I was a miniature Elvis Presley) and made my exit mouthing curse words and derogatory epithets against the successor and all witnesses laughing in all directions.
I was free and in much need for quality soul replenishment.
The town car drove me back to the beautiful hotel room at the Kodak Theater where they hold the Academy Awards every year, and I drank in the sweet filling meat of Jack Kerouac. Page for page as I read I was reminded of the beauty of life and it’s depth. And page for page I was baptized back into the real world. My contribution being degraded was just a night terror. Passing like a few dark clouds on a sunny day.
And poetry was there when I needed it most to remind me that I am more than any one project. Thanks poetry. You made me whole again.
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