Even Hemingway tried a bit of poetry

Ernest Hemingway was a young man when he posed in his World War I uniform, and old before his years when he sat for the photograph shown at the right. He walked among us from 1899 until 1961.

Bitterness & vitriol were Hemingway's specialties

Just to be mean to you, I am going to toss some "macho" poetry at you.

Ernest Hemingway came into the world a generation before James Dickey, and never-ever was noted for his poetry. I assume anyone who reads this does know Hemingway primarily was a novelist and short story writer, who won both a Pulitzer Prize and the Nobel Prize for Literature. In case everyone does not, it now has been mentioned.

Hemingway did have some poetry published in magazines. Most of it bitter, angry, even venomous diatribes, aimed at professional critics, governments, religions and a woman here and there. He is lucky his speciality was fiction. Some attention was turned to his World War II love poems to Mary Welsh, the woman who became his fourth wife, but again, he really has no credentials as a poet.

Just to give you a taste of "Old Ernie's" stuff, here are a couple he wrote in the 1920s – 1930s. These, I consider some of his better ones, his shorter ones and definitely some of his more mellow ones.

The Ernest Liberal's Lament

I know monks masturbate at night
That pet cats screw
That some girls bite
And yet
What can I do
To set things right?

Ultimately

He tried to spit out the truth;
Dry-mouth at first,
He drooled and slobbered in the end;
Truth dibbling his chin.

Chapter Heading

For we have thought the larger thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devil's tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.

Along With Youth

A porcupine skin
Stiff with bad tanning,
It must have ended somewhere.
Stuffed horned owl
Pompous
Yellow eyed;
Chuck-wills-widow on a biased twig
Sooted with dust.
Piles of old magazines,
Drawers of boy's letters
And the line of love
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday's tribute is gone
Along with youth
And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach
The year of the big storm
When the hotel burned down
At Seney, Michigan.

The poetry of song lyrics & the human voice

The human voice can transform poetry to song, and into magic.

Name your favorite living poet ....

Not very long ago, I was in an all too brief a conversation in which poetry and music were mentioned in the context that the lyrics of many songs form poetry.

Poetry is alive and well today, but does not hold the stature it once did. How many people can come up with the name of their "favorite living" poet? All my own favorites are in the ground.

I have long thought that one reason poetry and "professional" poets are fewer in this age is because of the explosion of music since World War II, most particularly since the 1960s. Yesterday's poets are today's musicians. To read the lyrics of many songs is to read poetry.

Poetry might be inspired and sometimes is inspirational. Put the poetry to music, and emotional responses are heightened to even greater levels. Part of it is to be found in the melody. Part of it is to be found through the magical quality of the human voice singing the poetry. Personally, I even prefer hearing poetry being read than simply reading it myself. The human presence in the form of a voice puts additional life into elegantly written words, and the notes of music to create a song unite these three elements into an entirely transcendental form of art.

Agree or not with me about poetry, I doubt anyone would have the slightest problem naming their "favorite living" singer or band. Hence, tonight's "poetry" reading:

Band: Queensryche
Album: Empire
Song: Silent Lucidity

Hush now, don't you cry
Wipe away the teardrop from your eye
You're lying safe in bed
It was all a bad dream
Spinning in your head
Your mind tricked you to feel the pain
Of someone close to you leaving the game of life
So here it is, another chance
Wide awake you face the day
Your dream is over.... or has it just begun?

There's a place I like to hide
A doorway that I run through in the night
Relax child, you were there
But only didn't realize it and you were scared
It's a place where you will learn
To face your fears, retrace the years
And ride the whims of your mind
Commanding in another world
Suddenly you hear and see
This magic new dimension

I - will be watching over you
I - am gonna help you see it through
I - will protect you in the night
I - am smiling next to you, in Silent Lucidity

--spoken during solo--
[Visualize your dream]
[Record it in the present tense]
[Put it into a permanent form]
[If you persist in your efforts]
[You can achieve dream control]
[Dream control]
[How's that then, better?]
[Hug me]

If you open your mind for me
You won't rely on open eyes to see
The walls you built within
Come tumbling down, and a new world will begin
Living twice at once you learn
You're safe from the pain in the dream domain
A soul set free to fly
A round trip journey in your head
Master of illusion, can you realize
Your dream's alive, you can be the guide but...

I - will be watching over you
I - am gonna help to see it through
I - will protect you in the night
I - am smiling next to you....

Lost some place between poetry, love and bar stools ....

A couple of days ago, I mentioned the "Sanctuary/Refuge" that once was mine but no longer is. This view of the countryside was taken from the deck of the house. My photography is for illustrative purposes and not designed to be "pretty," so please don't grade it.

Speaking of photography, and poets, too ....

Of the three best friends I have had in my life, one is a professional photographer. He does take graduation photos and wedding photos, but he derives a large portion of his income from selling photos to publications. He doesn't travel far and wide to take his photos, either. His range generally is about 200 miles from his home. He asks what I consider to be a ridiculous amount of money for his "snapshots" and, more often than not, he gets it.

Applying that concept to the "world of blogs," I see several photographers who have followers, but rarely see many (if any) followers associated with the bloggers who are offering poetry.

The difference between being an "average" photographer and a "good" photographer is, in my opinion, a short leap and mostly a technological leap, ranging from cameras and lens to darkrooms and computers. Sure, a good eye is required, but basically a bit of practice and quality gear can turn most people into excellent photographers.

The same is not true for a poet. Everything that has anything to do with being a poet comes from inside the person. Technology has nothing to do with it. This is why poets, so often the unappreciated and the unpaid, should be among the people who are appreciated (and, perhaps, valued) the most, I think.

This is not to detract from photography. Rather, it is to suggest we all might benefit from reading more poetry, thinking about those written words created from the depths of human psyche, and applauding the people who create them.

Friends & lovers, outside of marriage ....

I think it was Ernest Hemingway who said (or wrote) words to the effect that a man and a woman could not be friends without becoming lovers, as well. In high school, I was a Hemingway worshipper but, in expressing that notion, I believe old Ernie clearly was incorrect. (By the time I was in the midst of college, incidentally, I was discovering there were better novelists than he.)

Of the three best friends I mentioned earlier, one was a woman. Our friendship began in a typical way, as work mates, spending hours together most days. We came very close to becoming lovers on more than one occasion. It was something we discussed, also on more than one occasion. We agreed it might wreck our friendship if we became physically entangled as well as emotionally and spiritually so. We both were married to other people at the time, and part of our decision revolved around not wishing to risk hurting them.

We had great fun with our friendship. There were times we would start grappling with each other on bar stools (or another public setting) and then, abruptly, look up, look around, act startled, leap from the stools and run for the entrance. Outside, we would figuratively fall down laughing.

She is gone now. Cancer took her down and forever put her away. Sometimes, I think we made a mistake by not becoming lovers, too. Who is to say? I wonder how often all of us think we are doing the right thing and, unknowingly, we might be doing the wrong thing.

Music Note: Currently listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter ....
Specifically, "Come On Come On" ....
("Passionate Kisses" -- I'm retrospective tonight)