She came to the party joking about her Dick,
And was advised it was time to change up her schtick.
Her husband Richard
Was becoming triggered,
Hearing her tell strangers she just loved her Big Dick.
Double Entendre Limerick
Reply
Tag Archives: poetry
ESSAY: “Tradition and the Individual Talent” by T.S. Eliot
Tradition and the Individual Talent: An Essay by T.S. EliotMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Read for free at the Poetry Foundation
Amazon.in Page
While this is a controversial essay and I don’t accept it wholesale, myself, I would wholeheartedly recommend it as required reading for poets (and other artists.) What is Eliot’s controversial thesis? It’s that poetry should be less about the poet. That broad and imprecise statement can be clarified by considering two ways in which Eliot would make poetry less about the poet. First, Eliot proposes that poets should be in tune to the historic evolution of their art and — importantly — should not be so eager to break the chain with the past masters. He’s not saying a poet needs to be a literary historian, but rather that one be well-read in the poetry of the past. Second, Eliot advocates that a poet avoid packing one’s poetry with one’s personality, and – instead – let one’s personality dissolve away through the act of creation.
A quote from the essay may help to clarify — Eliot says, “Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not an expression of personality, but an escape from personality.”
One can imagine the accusations of pretension and dogmatism that Eliot received in 1919 from the mass of poets who were moving full speed ahead into poetry that was suffused with autobiography, was avant-garde, and which was free of meter, rhyme and other compositional elements that had once been seen as the defining characteristics of poetry.
I don’t see this essay as being the map to our new home, but rather as the catalyst of a conversation that could move us to a more preferable intermediary location. I have, too often, picked up a collection by a young poet that was entirely autobiographical and (also, too often) of the “everybody hates me, nobody loves me, I think I’ll go eat worms” variety of wallowing in personal feelings. And I always think, when I want to read something depressing, I’ll read something from someone who has lived tragedy — e.g. a Rwandan refugee, not something from a twenty-four-year-old MFA student at some Ivy League school.
So, yeah, maybe we could use more connection to the past and a bit less autobiographical poetry from people who haven’t lived a novel-shaped life.
View all my reviews
Share on Facebook, Twitter, Email, etc.
“The Call” by Charlotte Mew [w/ Audio]
From our low seat beside the fire
Where we have dozed and dreamed and watched the glow
Or raked the ashes, stopping so
We scarcely saw the sun or rain
Above, or looked much higher
Than this same quiet red or burned-out fire.
To-night we heard a call,
A rattle on the window-pane,
A voice on the sharp air,
And felt a breath stirring our hair,
A flame within us: Something swift and tall
Swept in and out and that was all.
Was it a bright or dark angel? Who can know?
It left no mark upon the snow,
But suddenly it snapped the chain
Unbarred, flung wide the door
Which will not shut again;
And so we cannot sit here anymore.
We must arise and go:
The world is cold without
And dark and hedged about
With mystery and enmity and doubt,
But we must go
Though yet we do not know
Who called, or what marks we shall leave upon the snow.
Share on Facebook, Twitter, Email, etc.
Mole Limerick
There once was a lady with a mole,
And, about it, she was hard to console.
Examples were proffered,
Such as Cindy Crawford.
"But mine is dead, & it dug such fine holes."
Share on Facebook, Twitter, Email, etc.
Lover’s Limerick
There once was a Shakespearean lover,
Who, in darkness, crawled under cover.
Much to his surprise,
Having no use of eyes,
He later learned 'tweren't his lover, but another.
Share on Facebook, Twitter, Email, etc.
“Darest Thou Now O Soul” by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]
Darest thou now O soul,
Walk out with me toward the unknown region,
Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow?
No map there, nor guide,
Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,
Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.
I know it not O soul,
Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,
All waits undream'd of in that region, that inaccessible land.
Till when the ties loosen,
All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.
Then we burst forth, we float,
In Time and Space O soul, prepared for them,
Equal, equipt at last, (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfill O soul.
Share on Facebook, Twitter, Email, etc.
Spring Rain [Haiku]
sweet rain scent, &
sound of spatter on leaves, &
one drop on the face.
Share on Facebook, Twitter, Email, etc.
Lone Fisherman [Haiku]
Ruins [Senryū]
a cow grazes
on a plinth once reserved
for priests & kings.
Share on Facebook, Twitter, Email, etc.
“Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau” by William Blake [w/ Audio]
Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
Mock on, Mock on, 'tis all in vain.
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.
And every sand becomes a Gem
Reflected in the beams divine;
Blown back, they blind the mocking Eye,
But still in Israel's paths they shine.
The Atoms of Democritus
And Newton's Particles of light
Are sands upon the Red Sea shore
Where Israel's tents do shine so bright.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 