BECAUSE YOU ASKED ABOUT THE LINE
BETWEEN PROSE AND POETRY
—Howard Nemerov
Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.
________________________
Writing. Can't live with it; can't stop. Denise Levertov says:
THE GYPSY'S WINDOW
—Denise Levertov
It seems a stage
backed by imaginations of velvet,
cotton, satin, loops and stripes—
A lovely unconcern
scattered the trivial plates, the rosaries
and centered
a narrownecked dark vase,
unopened yellow and pink
paper roses, a luxury of open red
paper roses—
Watching the trucks go by, from stiff chairs
behind the window show, an old
bandanna'd brutal dignified
woman, a young beautiful woman
her mouth a huge contemptuous rose—
The courage
of natural rhetoric tosses to dusty
Hudson St. the chance of poetry, a chance
poetry gives passion to the roses,
the roses in the gypsy's window in a blue
vase, look real, as unreal
as real roses.
________________________
Or Anne Bradstreet:
THE AUTHOR TO HER BOOK
—Anne Bradstreet
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad exposed to public view;
Made thee in rags, halting, to the press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened, all my judge.
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call;
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth in the house I find.
In this array, 'monger vulgars may'st thou roam;
In critics' hands beware thou dost not come;
And take thy way where yet thou are not known.
If for thy Father asked, say thou had'st none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.
________________________
And Charles Bukowski, who had plenty of opinions about this (and every other) subject:
LIFTING WEIGHTS AT 2 A.M.
—Charles Bukowski
queers do this
or is it that you're afraid to die?
biceps, triceps, forceps,
what are you going to do
with muscles?
well, muscles please the the ladies
and keep the bullies
at bay—
so
what?
is it worth it?
is it worth to collected works
of Balzac?
or a 3 week vacation
in Spain?
or, is it another way of
suffering?
if you got paid to do it,
you'd hate it.
if a man got paid to make love,
he'd hate it.
still, one needs the
exercise—
this writing game:
only the brain and soul get
worked-out.
quit your bitching and
do it.
while other people are
sleeping
you're lifting a mountain
with rivers of poems
running off.
_______________________
You—quit your bitching and do it. Me, I'm off to the gym...
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)