The Middle Ground

Draime, I am one of the mastered ones
you despised.
Yet I understand your pain
your anger
and admire your works.

Yet I am a poet
of the middle ground
with academe on the right
and the outlaws on the left
betwixt and between
the sanctity and the
street.

Between the altars
of the ivory towers
and the trashcans
of 32nd street.

Feeding my muse
as best I can
with foods
rich and inglorious.

Thanks to Paul Pindris whose reply to my post on Doug Draime, inspired this poem.

Doug Draime - Outlaw Poet

Doug Draime is counted as one of the Outlaw Poets. Illuminating Information is part of a poem called Six Poems.

Illuminating Information

They talked about “art” as
if it was some
perfect glistening
thing like a diamond
after the mining
and cleaning

I swept the floor
as they talked
I took out the trash
washed the dirty glasses

“Art” without the blood
and torment
Mickey Mouse
without the mouse
turds.

After they left I
cleaned the ashtrays
scrubbed the toilet
waxed the floor
did what I had to do.

“Art” had nothing
to do with their lives
“art” was a good movie
a concert in the park
created and performed
by people with masters degrees
and winter homes
in Arizona.

I clocked out
bought a couple beers
and went home
tomorrow was another day
of illuminating information

This poetic fragment illustrates, through Draime, the attitude of the outlaws to "Art" as performed by those with Masters degrees i.e academic and comfortable art.

Draime is waiting tables to pay for his artistic pursuits, far removed from grants, teaching scholarships and patronage.

Real poetry is ever thus. Raw poetry comes from raw circumstances.

Rotten Old Fever

Hey fever
don't get the hots for me
me real cool
ice cool
so stay away

I can feel your flaming
breath on my body
Shazam, away
me real cool, man
not hot
not feverish

You are too much
for me hot flu
I'm down and shivering
hot and cold
real NOT cool

if I had my way
you'd cool way down
and be hip like me
lying naked
on my bed
alone.

Derivative Lunch Poetry

I have only recently been exposed to the poems of Frank O'Hara. In particular I was drawn to one of his lunchtime poems titled, "The Day Lady Died", which is about his reactions to the death of Billie Halliday.

I purchased his book, "Lunchtime Poems", but have not got far in reading it yet. So today it got packed in with my lunch and I will read one poem a day. I suspect that this may lead me to write a series of lunchtime poems based on my own observations. Isn't derivation grand.

Babarian Snippet - Bruce Isaacson

While I was reading a poem by Bruce Isaacson (Lost My Job & Wrote This Poem) this line jumped up and hit me between the eyes: "I have strip mined love for poetry."

What a great idea. Strip mining causes a large mess, but is very efficient in exposing the substance being mined.

How many poems have been written about love since time immemorial? Countless numbers but I suspect only a handful were strip mined.

Yellow 34 Roadster

I'm sure when
Henry made
You,
that
You were coloured
Black.

So what in hell possessed
The guys to
Paint this sucker red?

Red would be
Improving
Cos blacks
A tardy dull

But Yellow
Looms like
A gravid
Banana
Doesn't.

Orange Monster

Squatting like
A flat orange
As only a flat orange
Can

The hot rod
Sat ready
For the skydiver
Or Juicer...

Note: Skydiver came up when
I misspelt juice

Pink is the Color of my True Loves Hot Rod

Poetry straight from the 2013 Hot Rod and Classics Car Show in Hamilton, New Zealand.

This is Grant, your poetic host slamming from 1940s America in 2013 New Zealand.

I can almost guarantee that I am the only poetic blogger at today's event so here we go:

Pink is the Color
Of my true
Loves hot rod.

It's travelled many miles
That rod
In tunnels pink
And black on
Many roads
Unseen by me
With winds behind
His back.

It's pink and hot
And throbbing now
With petrol in the tank
The tires are sharp
the con rods tight
The rings are ridden in
So here we go my darling
Hot riding here agin.

Alan you had green,
But really pink is best
Pinko commie bastards
Will never ride this beast.

So if you have a moment
Please do think of me
As I'm taking you all
On this a ride of
pinko poetry.

The Classic Car Show

We are off to the classic car show. I am sure that there will be some poem opportunities so look out for my next few posts. Brmm.

Who knows me may get a poem as good as Ginsberg's Green Automobile.

Babarian Poetry - thoughts of David Lerner

I am going to write a small series of posts about Babarian Poetry as described by David Lerner.

The term Babarian is not related to the Greek word barbaros which the Greeks used to describe non Greek speakers. The Greeks thought the foreigners sounded as though they were saying bar, bar, bar meaningless words.

The name actually comes from a poetry hangout in the Mission district of San Francisco called Cafe Babar. As Lerner says, "Poetry is committed there every Thursday night." Hence Babar-ian poetry.

The club draws from a very eclectic mix of clients: hookers, street people, college professors, kids with Mohawks and as Lerner so aptly describes them, "elderly gentlemen, alcoholic poets in twenty old year old suits.

More to follow.

The G+ Force Highway

G force is so yesterday man
Today we have the G+ man, man.
So cool
So new
Cruising with the buds
down the G+
information
highway, man
like so totally
awesome
dude.

Summers Evening at the Helm

Wonderful music flowing
Over me
As I sit and enjoy
A Summers night
At the Helm

Wind blowing
Around me cocooning
Me in warmth.

Diet Coke at my side.
A librarian for
Serious discussion

And me
Sitting like a Buddha
Contentedly.

Poetic Discovery - the Journey

“Come, my friend, let us enter the expanses of the Unknown Country. You will soon behold the original of your vision, the hope of humanity, and will rest in the land of Etidorhpa. Come, my friend, let us hasten.”

John Uri Lloyd’s from his book Etidorhpa

Writing poetry is a word adventure into an unknown land. I think as a poet, and I suggest that this is common to all poets, I am seeking to find the original of my vision. Our writing is a journey to find a vision, to explore the reason for what we write, why we are here.

Whether we ever end our journey this side of death is debatable.

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The Goddess in the Cave

Without all is calm and demure
but within the cave
of her occupation
the goddess dwells
in splendid isolation.

But within her thrall
are many worshipers
of Eros
Who bow at her command
Who look in awe
at the goddess
within the cave
of no entry.

Be patient
less the goddess tires
and devours
your
very heart.

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Parasitic Verse

I share Jack Spicer's philosophy that verse doesn't originate from within the poet's expressive will as a spontaneous gesture unmediated by formal constraints, but is "a foreign agent, a parasite that invades the poet's language and expresses what it wants to say"

A.D. Winans

I must say that I prefer the idea of the mystical muse. Parasitic invasion causing verse, is however, a novel thought.

The Mystic Muse

Unexpectedly you come
to my thoughts.
my poetic muse.
with eyes of liquid
brown opening
a gateway to your soul.

The conception of a poem
seeds itself deep within me.
From within your cave
you are calling
siren like
sultry and silent by day
but within the cave
the true fire is released.

Your call can not
be delayed
nor be ignored
the poetic urge must
have it's way...

Come to me
write as with your tongue
upon my opened mind
The poem, the muse,
the poet

explode upon the sheets
of the page.