30 Poems in 30 Days: Courting Controversy
September 14, 2007 by John Hewitt
This is Day 11 of 30 Poems in 30 Days
The Big Tent
While I like to think of the poetry community as one big family, I don’t necessarily think of it as one big happy family. Just because you are in the same family doesn’t mean you have to like each other.
Alexander Pope was an insufferable little man (At 4 foot 6, I do mean little) who was loved by half the literary world and despised by the other half. Any poet his disliked, he insulted and parodied within his poems. Even poets that were his friends rarely escaped his poetic wrath. He was perhaps the best poet of his age, and he had no humility about that fact whatsoever.
In modern times, one of my poetic heroes, Charles Bukowski, was forever insulting the beat poets, and took great offense whenever his work was lumped in with theirs. On the surface, their work had many similarities, but Bukowski felt as if the beats were conspicuously trying to embrace the lifestyle of the poor and downtrodden, while for him that was simply the reality of his life.
Some people believe that you cannot have poetry without meter. That patterns are the very heart of poetry and that meter is the way of determining and defining those patterns. For most of the history of poetry, few poets questioned that poetry and meter were inextricably intertwined. In the twentieth century, however, poets began to reconsider the idea of meter. Poets such as William Carlos Williams began to focus image over meter. They wrote poetry in which line length was determined by the image or impression the line was meant to create rather than patterns of syllables, word lengths, sounds or stresses. This was a controversial act.
My point is that you will never please everybody. Some people will like your poems and others will, most decidedly, dislike them. You have to write what feels true to you. Embrace the pasts of your voice that you like, whether they are popular or fit in with the rest of the crowd.
Today’s Poetry Assignment
Read a poet you don’t like. Try to figure out what they do that upsets you and determine whether or not this assessment is fair. Try to think of ways that you would approach the same subject matter using your style. Write a poem that addresses some of the same subject / style / tone of the poet you dislike but do it in your own style.
Today’s Recommended Poet
I personally find this poets work to be interesting, but I find many of his word and pattern choices to be frustrating. Thats my opinion, but this review of “Selfwolf” from Kirkus has several more complaints:
The third book by the author of a critical study of Wallace Stevens anticipates critics by admitting its sentimentality and flat, demotic speech of course, the poems that indulge Hallidays delusions of greatness, though meant to be ironic, are closer to his sense of self-importance. Far too many of these colloquial narratives concern Hallidays anxieties about his academic career, and the poetry biz: Loaded Inflections mocks all critics, leaving true judgment only to God and the future; two poems resent other poets who don’t sufficiently praise his genius; and The Halls bemoans the indifference of the building where he failed to get tenure.
Selfwolf 
This may take a while - it’s really hard to find a decent poet I strongly dislike! Plenty of crap ones of course, but I don’t think that’s what you meant.
Although … I might hunt up some Helen Steiner Rice. ROFLMAO.
If you can’t find a poet you dislike, surely you can find a poem you dislike.
I know who springs to mind for me. I loathe and detest, and I mean REALLY loathe and detest, Robert Frost.
Dear cerelbralmum, for some reason your avowal strikes me as hilarious - even though I like Frost myself. I guess it’s cos he’s such an icon, not usually described in terms of loathing and detestation! And something about that had me remember how much I disliked Lily Brett’s acclaimed, prizewinning “The Auschwitz Poems” when it came out - and, on re-reading just now, still do. It’s not the harrowing subject matter,it’s the long, skinny poems of one or two words per line, for no good reason that I can see. Lily herself didn’t live through the Auschwitz experience though that is not evident from the poems; her parents did, and it’s their stories she’s retelling. So here is my take on something similar.
BILL’S WAR
1
We’d be lying in bed,
me drifting off slowly as I do,
himself already asleep,
when a plane would buzz lazily over
and he’d twitch
violently
without waking,
though I’d be startled wide awake.
One time his flailing arm
whacked my head hard.
Both of us yelled aloud
but he was still in his nightmare.
It was many months later
the stories came out.
I don’t recall
what triggered them
that night in our living room,
but I’ll never forget what he said
and the way he kept on going
non-stop for hours, all in a whisper.
I sat very still,
silent, expressionless.
He didn’t look at me.
He stared where I couldn’t see.
2
He was four when the Germans
bombed Holland, nine when they left
finally defeated. On VE Day
Resistance fighters, celebrating,
fired their guns wildly anywhere
inside a children’s playground
while all the kids ran.
Bill crouched behind the slide,
an old dog huddled in beside him.
He saw its ear shot off.
“It was such a nice old dog,”
he wept, sixteen years later.
In the early years
the little boy only knew
the Germans were bad.
Just by being there
they made his mother cry.
He was caught with his friend
throwing stones to break the windows
of an armaments shed.
“They took me home to my mother.
I was in very big trouble. So was she.
Now I know
they might have killed us.”
3
His brother John was a quiet man.
A lively youngster once, I heard,
“but all the laugh went out of him.”
By seven John was riding his push-bike
miles alone daily to find food –
something, anything. He was the oldest.
Their father was hiding by then,
Resistance hero. When he came home
Bill waited and waited out on the street
to be the first to greet him.
At last the motorbike!
It thundered blindly past.
But he had another father.
Willy had been drafted
when they started using older men.
He showed them pictures:
his son back home in Germany,
just Bill’s age, the same
blond curls and round blue eyes.
He liked sitting in their kitchen
telling stories, Bill on his knee.
One day Willy was gone,
sent to the front. Vanished.
“Good riddance!” Bill’s mother said.
———————————————–
ENVOI
On and on and on
whispered through the night
these and other stories.
At times the unconscious tears
fell and dried on his cheeks
and he never noticed.
But after that night
when the planes went over
he slept sound.
Where’s me pome gone? I just posted it and it’s not appearing.
Just as well too - I’m already revising it. (E.g. never could count - had “sixteen” where it was really “twenty”.) So let’s see if I can get it to happen this time.
Second try!
Dear cerelbralmum, for some reason your avowal strikes me as hilarious - even though I like Frost myself. I guess it’s cos he’s such an icon, not usually described in terms of loathing and detestation! And something about that had me remember how much I disliked Lily Brett’s acclaimed, prizewinning “The Auschwitz Poems” when it came out - and, on re-reading just now, still do. It’s not the harrowing subject matter,it’s the long, skinny poems of one or two words per line, for no good reason that I can see. Lily herself didn’t live through the Auschwitz experience though that is not evident from the poems; her parents did, and it’s their stories she’s retelling. So here is my take on something similar.
BILL’S WAR
1
We’d be lying in bed,
me drifting off slowly as I do,
himself already asleep,
when a plane would buzz lazily over
and he’d twitch
violently
without waking,
though I’d be startled wide awake.
One time his flailing arm
whacked my head hard.
Both of us yelled aloud
but he was still in his nightmare.
It was many months later
the stories came out.
I don’t recall
what triggered them
that night in our living room,
but I’ll never forget what he said
and the way he kept on going
non-stop for hours, all in a whisper.
I sat very still,
silent, expressionless.
He didn’t look at me.
He stared where I couldn’t see.
2
He was four when the Germans
bombed Holland, nine when they left
finally defeated. On VE Day
Resistance fighters, celebrating,
fired their guns wildly anywhere
inside a children’s playground
while all the kids ran.
He crouched behind the slide,
an old dog huddled in beside him.
He saw its ear shot off.
“It was such a nice old dog,”
he wept, twenty years later.
In the early years
the little boy only knew
the Germans were bad.
Just by being there
they made his mother cry.
He was caught with his friend
throwing stones to break the windows
of an armaments shed.
“They took me home to my mother.
I was in very big trouble. So was she.
Now I know
they might have killed us.”
3
His brother John was a quiet man.
A lively youngster once, I heard,
“but all the laugh went out of him.”
By seven John was riding his push-bike
miles alone daily to find food –
something, anything. He was the oldest.
Their father was hiding by then,
Resistance hero. When he came home
Bill waited and waited out on the street
to be the first to greet him.
At last the motorbike!
It thundered blindly past.
But he had another father.
Willy had been drafted
when they started using older men.
He showed them pictures:
his son back home in Germany,
just Bill’s age, the same
blond curls and round blue eyes.
He liked sitting in their kitchen
telling stories, Bill on his knee.
One day Willy was gone,
sent to the front. Vanished.
“Good riddance!” Bill’s mother said.
———————————————–
ENVOI
On and on and on
whispered through the night
these and other stories.
At times the unconscious tears
fell and dried on his cheeks
and he never noticed.
But after that night
when the planes went over
he slept sound.
Hooray!
EDGAR ALLAN POE
One of America’s most famous writers
Was born in Boston, January of 1809.
Both his parents were failing actors
And his father was drunk most the time.
In 1810 Edgar’s dad disappeared
His mother died soon after.
A childless couple took him in
Raising him with love and laughter.
Edgar had a Negro nurse
Who brought him to her quarters.
There he listened to ghost stories
Far beyond earthly borders.
The strange tales he later wrote
May have come from her inspiration.
The words she used to describe death
Gave Poe his taste for sensation.
The Allans moved to England
Where Poe attended boarding schools.
There’s no doubt his time spent there
Sharpened his skills as tools.
Returning to Richman and back in school
He began to compose new verse.
Heavy debts forced him to leave college
As his life took a turn for the worse.
Poe caught a ride on a coal barge to Boston
Where he was unable to find employment.
A young printer agreed to publish his poems
Giving him hope and enjoyment.
Penniless, Poe enlisted in the army
And was accepted to West Point in 29.
Poe couldn’t stand not being a writer
Self-imposing his dismissal from The Line.
Afterward he became an editor and critic
And married his cousin who was thirteen.
Six years latter he discovered she was dying
Suffering once more the unforeseen.
He went through periods of insanity
Caused by grieving and functional fall.
He smoked opium and drink too much
Till at his doorstep death would call.
Edgar Allan Poe the master of verse
Still lives in our hearts today
Famous for The Raven and other great works
May his soul rest in peace we pray.
SHAKESPEARE
Shakespeare, perhaps the greatest writer in history,
In his day was known as a master of good plays.
The theater gave him the freedom to create
And in turn he put hearts and souls a blaze.
Far from the world of the stage
Shakespeare was born in April of 1564.
In the little English town called Stratford
With several sisters and brothers after and before.
All the boys went to the same grammar school
As soon as they could read and write.
Where the only subject taught was Latin
Which was of little use to those born bright.
At 18 he married a woman named Anne Hathaway
Who was 8 years older than he.
The daughter of a neighboring farmer
Who bore his children, with twins, made three.
In 7 years he was a successful actor
After starting his career at 21.
Only the best actors found work in London
And by the grace a God Shakespeare was one.
Many actors of the period were playwrights
And Shakespeare was one of the best.
His greatest success was Henry VI,
Which placed him above the rest.
Shakespeare turned to another kind of writing
When because of a plague London theaters had to close.
He wrote two narrative poems greatly admired by the critics
Though to be famous as a poet, he never wanted or chose.
He in stead, turned back to the life of the stage
As soon as the theaters reopened again.
He joined an acting company until he retired
Writing plays for the Chamberlain’s Men.
Shakespeare died in 1616
And was buried in his local church back home.
Where he had been baptized 52 years before
He lies in his grave silent and alone.
MASTERS OF VERSE
Poetry is one of Earth’s oldest arts
Practiced long before words of print.
Every race had its masters of verse
In caves, huts cabins, or tent.
Stories in verse were handed down
From one generation to another.
The first told of love, war and more
And how to survive each other.
As man became more civilized
He could not help but wonder within.
Verse then took on a deeper meaning
With stories of faith, superstition, and sin.
The act of reciting became in demand
As verse began to advance
Every tribe, city, town and village
Had someone who gave words romance.
Today’s poets are on the World Wide Web
Though many seem spiritually ill.
Thank heaven for all who still have God’s gift
To compose, teach, comfort, and fulfill.
THE POWER OF POETRY
Poetry is the lighthouse of life
Guiding the lost from a stormy sea.
Without it’s presence darkness prevails
Keeping us from all we can be.
Poems are used to convey passion
By poets of both good and evil mood.
Some are hateful others loving
Sharing thoughts to be consumed as food.
Verse can lead us to glory or doom
As we partake with others within.
Depicting our past, present and future
With words of man’s grace or sin.
People write poetry because they have no choice
Answering to the call of their gift.
Where some tend to pull their readers down
Others compose to give them a lift.
Always remember the power of poetry
Is used by both heaven and hell.
It’s up to us to choose our pleasure
As poetry remains alive and well.
GOD’S POETS
The prize jewels of any nation
Are the philosophers of the heart.
How they think is universal,
For it’s God who makes them so smart.
Most poets tell the truth of life,
Though they may wrap it in beauty.
It’s their passion, not their purpose;
To compose is but their duty.
Poets have no reason to lie
When the truth is always so clear.
All that others say and do
Is but food for the poet’s ear.
One merit of a poet’s work,
Which most people cannot deny,
They say more and in fewer words
To illuminate you and I.
God sent his poets down to earth
With words of wisdom and of worth,
That they might touch the souls of men
And bring them back to Him again.
SATAN HAS POETS TOO
God has always had his poets,
Who he watches with love from space.
But Satan has his poets too,
Who try to lead us from our grace.
King Solomon was a poet,
Who spoke of love, life, death, and war.
That lips were like threads of scarlet,
And that breasts were roses and more.
The wild birds sing and flowers bloom,
As clouds form figures in the sky.
But only humans will write poems,
That shall last long after they die.
The eldest sister of all arts,
Which some have called the devils wine.
Poetry is but pure passion,
To stimulate the heart and mind.
A GOOD POEM
A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn’t need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.
A good poem is like the flower,
The lily or the rose.
God plants it in a poet’s brain
And there its beauty grows.
A good poem like a cardinal
Is pregnant with song;
You can’t help but hear its message
As it sings what’s right or wrong.
A good poem helps us remember
What the joys of life are for,
It makes us want to love someone
‘Till death comes knocking at our door.
ALL POETS SERVE A MASTER
Most poets have a bit of Solomon
Shakespeare and Poe within.
Constantly eager to share their visions
Of love, life, joy and sin.
Some guzzle whiskey
Some sip wine,
Some prefer cola
And feel just fine.
Some smoke pot
Or suck cigarettes,
Some abuse drugs
With lifetime regrets.
Some attend church
And sing of God,
While others make fun
And call them odd.
All have a purpose,
Which drives them to compose.
All serve a master,
Who by free will, they chose.
DIVINE INTERVENTION
I never write a poem
That doesn’t write itself.
I catch a buzz and come alive
Like a puppet off it’s shelf.
Hearing many voices,
Whose words are never mine.
My pen becomes a painter’s brush
Forming visions on a line.
I seem to be a better person,
When it’s time to sit down and write.
A higher power guides my hand,
Sharing wisdom by day and night.
People born to create,
Have no choice but to perform.
It’s the rush of sharing their gift,
That elevates them from the norm.
What would our world become,
Without intervention from above?
Angry beings in a revolving cage,
With no sense of passion or love.
WHISPERS OF THE HEART
Poetry consumed is where wisdom begins
As we heed to the whispers of the heart.
It’s easy to blame others for our dismay
When from ignorance we refuse to part.
Verse is a beacon of hope in the darkness,
To help us navigate the pitfalls of strife.
Far more people write it, than read it,
And that’s why there’s endless conflict in life.
I write poems to help fuel the light
By sharing what God has given me.
With stories of life, love, war and more.
Where heroes pray on bended knee.
MY FAVORITE POET
My favorite poet is God above
Who gives Earth its rhythm and rhyme.
Not pied pipers of misguided souls
Who promote distrust, hatred and crime.
Poetry is nature serenading in song
The peaceful roar of the oceans waves.
The wind through the trees and over the hills
And the flowers in the fields by the graves.
The sound of rain as it waters the thirsty
The songs of children at play in the park.
The far off rumble of trains or thunder
As they pass through the night in the dark.
The joy of our babies first words and steps
The passion of life with its heroes and clowns.
The on going struggle to survive our sins
As we proliferate in hamlets and towns.
My favorite poet is our father of love
Who was first to know us before birth.
His poetry prolongs every thing we love
As his deliverance gives life its worth.
All Poems By Tom Zart
“TOM ZART’S 300 POEMS”
You can hear all of Tom Zart’s 300 poems of love, war, faith and more 24-7 on web radio at=
http://internetvoicesradio.com/Arch-TomZart.htm
Tom Zart ARCHIVES:
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Poems of Love, War, Faith And More
By Tom Zart “Soldier For The Lord”
Most Published Poet On The Web
Author of LOVE WAR AND MORE
Poets that annoy me are arrogant, rude, judgemental, egoistic, Narcossistic, narrow minded and inconsiderate gendarms
Missionary type word warriors who think rhyme makes a poem
I bet Wallace Stevens would have an apt word to say about their rantings.
Sssshhhh, hear him now, mixing up his incantings
Wowing us with wondrous syntax never missing a beat
Yup, he’d philosophise, get off the grill if you can’t take the heat
Poor poets, result of their own mythology, just one more sad statistic in the realm of self-appointed angry mystics
Thank you Connie, most apt!
PS I am put in mind of Charles Bukowski’s remark:
‘I looked around and noticed God had made
an awful lot of poets
but not so very much
poetry’
My entry is a response to Walt Whitman’s “Italian Music in Dakota”.
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/italian-music-in-dakota/
I have never been a fan of Walt Whitman. His style, I find, is consistently bland and is overly reverent to every subject. His poems put me to sleep. “Italian Music in Dakota” seems to take the concept of the beauty of music and just pound us over the head with it. Below is my approach to a similar concept.
Bagpipes on the Mall
Near twilight the music would begin
Bagpipes echoing on
Around
And through the buildings
The mournful rise and fall
Following the sun down
He stood alone out on the grass
Working that maligned
Primal
Instrument along a sad
Stretched song
That could only be a broken heart
It’s been fifteen years
Thousands of twilights
But I hear it for every one
As long as I stop
Stand still
And let the sun go down
I hope to hear it
On the day I finally stop
The day my twilight comes
Sadness should rise and fall
Those final moments
And nothing lasts longer
Than a bagpipes at twilight
Echoing on and on
This one is just beautiful John, rhythm, imagery, visual appeal, emotional connection, . . . and the audio, the echo going on and on and on . . . .
Yes, absolutely lovely. Echoing the beauty of music rather than pounding us over the head, and definitely not bland!
Rosemary: It is pretty funny, I guess. Frost seems fairly innocuous. Who gets insanely mad about apple picking? But I truly want to break things when I read him which I, of course, avoid like the plague.
I have heard him described as “ambiguous” but I find singularly transparent and smarmy and self-righteous. “Look at the great truths I perceive when I stop in the woods.” If he could be framed, he would be a motivational poster. I think he is reductive, like pop-psychology, and in my book that is tantamount to being a liar.
(DISCLAIMER: Please qualify all of the above with a big IMO. Poetry is as much created by the reader as the poet.)
Anyway, this here is my poem, which is based around Frost’s “A minor bird”. It is on the web, but I don’t have access to the link anymore as my computer is now defunct.
I do not need
to speak of birds
I can say the word
Depression
I can say
I hate
the imitation of my sorrow
by a mynah at my window
or echoed in a song
in minor key
I don’t need
pastoral devices
to disguise
my inner turmoil
Fences do not make
good poets
Just say the word
Depression
Okay - I posted it. but it has not yet appeared. I won’t post it again as it always seems to arrive later.
[...] 11th assignment from 30 poems in 30 days: Courting [...]
Dear cm: Frost was in fact a self-righteous prig. He’s on record as having felt gleefully superior to Pound on the basis that Pound included swear-words in his poetry. I’m with Ezra on that one!
PS Just looked up that poem in my volume of Frost. Not the most shining example of his work! He even sounds dated. I prefer your take on it. I’m boggled by the way you manage to be blunt, acerbic, humorous, deep, witty and sad all at the same time - and in such few brief lines!
While I’m not a real fan of Robert Frost, when I think of “traditional” poetry I immediately think of him. I think that he perfectly sums up everything that came before him, which is why poetry had to take such a different direction afterwards. Frost left the traditional verse nowhere to go.
CM: Hard, short and sharp. much more to my liking than Frosts poem. Here’s a link to “A Minor Bird”
http://www.netpoets.com/classic/poems/076125.htm
Rosemary:
Bill’s War is some of your best work yet. I like the plain spoken imagery. it felt very real, even in the second-hand telling.
Your Paper
Whoever you are,
your paper came to our door today,
all wrapped up like the stork’s bundle,
chock full of tidbits on personal investing
and with a full breakdown of the summer movies.
We can only hope you were compensated,
like maybe you got our paper instead,
which never arrived,
and you flipped straight to the editorials,
the way I like to,
and read This Rural Life to your wife,
quietly relishing the words
while she noses through a magazine
during the baby’s nap.
Saul Nadatas last blog post..Your Paper
[...] [...]