Paul, "Experiences" started out for me as a wide screen, panoramic shot.
What I thought you were going to do was talk about the atom bomb as a
"shared experience" maybe that's in the poem and I just didn't get it.
Because when you come down to the street level of Hooligans, I was looking
for the tie in. You did tie it in nicely in stanza three when you say
"Their game is to spook me up".
I thought "fart, fuck,... fight, kick the bucket" is nice. "Shit", I feel
we all do, but the rest "some people" can get away with saying they don't
do, which makes these words stick all the more, in my opinion, plus the
alliteration of f,k,t is nice. i
"nbetween they glimpse the poetic light
as if they see it through a black and white film
a bad LSD trip, a hangover, underwater
or come to it through age, experience... is a great stanza, it shows to me
that there is some redemption possible.
My last comment is I don't know why your last sentence, " but I know about
love, they do not?" would end in a question mark. I didn't expect it. The
tone of the poem seems to put these "others" in their place so to falter at
the end without any ado threw me out of the voice of the poem. But I like
the question "but I know about love, they do not?. I think it's strong and
relevant.
But right now the last stanza feels the weakest to me. 1) because of the
reference to McGrew- I think these people would have to get their poetry
through westerns on t.v. and 2)the "do" rhyme with McGrew sounded strangely
like a seussism to me.
I hope this is helpful.
With Best Regards, Annabelle.
-----Original Message-----
From: The Pennine Poetry Works [mailto:[log in to unmask]]On
Behalf Of paul murphy
Sent: Saturday, November 08, 2003 8:06 AM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: new sub - experiences
EXPERIENCES
Experiences, atom bombs
In the park a swan neatly
pierced with a crossbow bolt
Through its throat but it is still alive.
Hooligans, vandals, yahoos, apaches,
thugs, rakers, peep O day boys.
You see them congregate on street corners
smelly little bastards, queer bashers.
disharmonised, disfunctional, defunctive
mentally disturbed, emotionally gangrenous
a limb of society cut off, left to rot
something leftover, useless and sordid.
Their game is to spook me up
this poofy unknown lone queer
who writes unknown, unknowable lines of poetry
who paints emotional, plashed lines of colour.
For the galleries of high art
For the bookshelves of middle-class homes
the libraries in America, the universities
in Tashkent, the bookshops in Sao Paolo.
They can't relate to poetry or to art
at all, they read The Sun, pick their noses
scratch their backsides, fart, shit
fuck, fight, kick the bucket.
inbetween they glimpse the poetic light
as if they see it through a black and white film
a bad LSD trip, a hangover, underwater
or come to it through age, experience
or even 'The Balled of Dan McGrew'.
what can I say, what can I do?
I am this unknown lone queer poet
but I know about love, they do not?
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