Writing. Living.

Began a redraft of the long poem for my mother tonight, tightening up rhythms and choice of words in certain places to give each line the flow and balance it needs. But whether I will chapbook it is another matter. I might just talk it up here and see if I can generate a mystery about it that'll inspire some poor publisher to shell out for an edition. Who knows, I could at least make a cool £50 out of it that'd pay for a trip to London.
I'm not that interested in dreams of literary glory, like I said earlier today (no, it wasn't just the early morning grumbles). Even if I got a handsome chap out with the poem inside, the right people would hate it and the wrong people would love it, and both camps would be making their judgements for the wrong reasons. That's the way it is in the poetry field.
Wonder why I even bother writing, given the stuff I say about poetry? I don't know myself. It's a habit, like shooting smack, or masturbating. Except it neither sedates me, nor gives me a temporary thrill.


The malaise in poetry began with this crap about Academia--the poets separating themselves from any kind of vaguely objective analysis--and in some instances from the obligation of hard work--by buying into the philistinic myth that anything done by someone qualified to do it will be an automatic failure.

Comments

Bobby said…
I'd like to see it.

But, I'm not sure if you're the type of blogger who likes to post his poems. I have a friend who never does it because he's always submitting his poems to journals, and he's worried about the journals googling lines from his poems and finding them on his blog and then yelling at him saying it's already been published . . . and I don't argue with him because he's some hot shot who's been in the Iowa Review and all that . . .

So I scrolled back through your blog and scanned for a post that looked like it had poetry line breaks, and I saw your poem, Power Cut (which I like!). And it's funny because the first time I commented here it was about Johnny Cash - and I had just seen that movie too.

Sorry for babbling . . .
Bruce Hodder said…
No, I post poems sometimes, when the mood strikes me. If I'm worried they might be crap I don't, though. This one I'm just not publishing here out of sensitivity to the people who knew my mother, as it has some pretty hard stuff in it (like about the complex emotions--the love and the anger--you experience when you're caring for someone who's terminally ill) and I don't want to upset anybody, or cause misunderstandings...
The stuff about the reaction in the poetry world is just me grinding old axes. I'm guilty of everything I accuse the rest of the poetry world of doing. Like someone said, if you really want to understand the truth of an accusation, change the pronouns!But I tell it like I feel it on this blog--even if I change my mind an hour later.
"Do I contradict myself? Well, then, I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes," as Whitman says.
Tell your friend to have a look at my magazine ANGEL HEAD (http://bkerouac.tripod.com) and push some poems my way, if he likes what he sees...
Glad you came back for another visit, Bobby.