delinquent after dissatisfied (how do you
i know how to live) by it.
thrown up against white canvas
yellow or red or was it sub-
too bad about her cat. what
a mess, we’ve all got a tumor
inside. growing up in suburbia,
embrace middle town and taste death
pitched between these cracked lanes.
trees simply green. that blazing
yellow never strikes twice in Winter.
some day we will be grey.
today I screamed Fuck
you are never too old
la – dy, or are you?
Wondering, are you not? Fair warning, we study the New York School poets this week. I’m in love. This tight knit click of homo-sexual men, whom sadly seemed not too inclusive of women, (though I’ve much more to read to make a statement as such, just basing on name dropping within poems and literature) are the bomb. Despite this (I try not to hate those who may hate me) I’m very much pro-NYS for they incapsulate a movement that is revolving toward the post-modern.
O’Hara, whose life sadly ended to soon, offers us his bag of tricks and lunch, too. While Ashbery is a coy mistress of playing games behind our back while not talking above our heads. Who was it that said, hold onto your seats boys, it’s going to be a bumpy ride’? (Yes, I’m paraphrasing for that buxom blond whom these boys probably enjoyed on the silver screen, but thought nothing of her golden stream of body).
A question to any of you who may know the answer to this Q posted on forum tonight:
Whenever I read poetry, I’m oft intrigued by the poet’s choice of form. New York School seems to be all over the board. Ashbery’s poems are most curious for several look like a traditional ballad, but obviously are not. Does his use of this traditional form, especially with Capitalizing the first letter of each line, speak to any certain purpose? This seems more of a puzzler than the actual words… (then again, not saying I’ve got that figured in the least!)
one shouldn’t read too much of the above poem. there is a looming cloud that seems to dominate my airspace – invision that brown dustbowl that surrounds Pigpen’s every step. note (!) –there is never a thought that i compete with True poets, but there is desire to write like them when the muse is not drowning in PennSound academe. a poet such as Ashbery or O’Hara writes in a way that makes me sigh– the ordinary entwined within a non-narrative but still weaving a ‘story’ (albiet, this is a very simplistic understanding).
Speaking of simplicity, two / books found at used book shop this weekend. Serendiptious considering what we are studying and where we have been thus far. Only problem, I’ve spent too much of today inside my head…