Regarding Poetry…

‘Here I sit, broken hearted / tried to @#%! and only farted’ – Poem I once read on a bathroom wall

I ALWAYS wished that I could write poetry…

Alas, it ain’t exactly my forte. Even ‘bathroom-wall’ poets’ are better than I am.

And it’s not that I don’t like poetry, or admire poets. Yes, a great deal of poetry is indeed pretentious nonsense. But I am also connected to numerous talented poets via my webpage, and I enjoy reading their work a great deal. (One of my favorites is Harman Kaur. Check out her WordPress page!)

I’m also a big fan of the classic poets, my favorites being Kipling, Stevenson, Poe, and Lewis Carroll. I quote them all quite often, and re-read their work all the time. I also appreciate musicians who write profound lyrics: Ozzy Osbourne, Dave Mustaine, Axl Rose, James Hetfield and Nina Gordon are at the top of my list… but there are numerous others that I love as well!

So why can’t I write poetry?

I think it’s my lack of patience, honestly. I’m all about the best possible verbal nuance, exactly the right word in exactly the right place, every single time. But poetry goes beyond even that. Poetry is all about exactly the right word in exactly the right place… penned in a manner that exactly fits the cadence of the poem.

That’s a whole extra layer of artistic demand, right there!

So here’s to all you poets, be you famous or be you not… and sadly, most of you are not but that doesn’t dim your artistic star one whit. You have the patience to plug away at an art form that completely befuddles me

But I admire you all nonetheless. Be well, and thank you for all that you do!!!

Another Gem from the Poet King…

If you can keep your head when all about you   
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;   
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;   
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Regarding Someone More Talented Than I’ll EVER Be…

I started this blog to showcase my own writing.

By modern standards, I’m pretty good…

By historical standards, I’m a hack.

Here is one of the greatest poems ever written, by one of the greatest writers who ever lived. Disney has made a tawdry mockery of his work, but for those of us who appreciate the finer things in life…

Well… WE get him!!!

L’Envoi – by Rudyard Kipling

When Earth’s last picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colors have faded
And the youngest critic has died
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
‘Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew
And those that were good shall be happy
They’ll sit in a golden chair
They’ll splash at a ten league canvas
With brushes of comet’s hair
They’ll find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul
They’ll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!