reccomend me some poetry.
 

but good poetry.

go ahead:

Gary Snyder
William Carlos Williams
Dylan Thomas

there is no such thing

only if you're into plants...

and I'm into plants, so it works out.

I've been digging the shit out of Kenneth Rexroth as of late. Definitely check out some of that shit. I ran across a piece by Rob Siliman titled "The Chinese Notebook" which has been a very interesting read.

James Havoc
Richard Brautigan (I'm sorry, but he makes me laugh and cry at the same time)

ron silliman??
yes!
wow, first time i've ever seen a mention of him on this forum!
buzzo should check out people like berrigan (the easy stuff, the sonnets are amazing but maybe not buzzos cuppa tea), frank o'hara, john ashberry etc etc. they are an introduction to a "modenist" mentality in poetics tho that still remain basically undifficult (clear images, narrative structure, poet is there in presence, long lines). i don't know whether buzzo wants to jump straight into silliman or other post-avants right away (or maybe he could just read his blog!). anyway - ashberry, shuyler, berrigan, o'hara tho it's only one route to go down, there are countless others....
if you're feeling saucy you could check out creeley, olson and zukofsky.

i second this
and would like to add Bukowski to the list.

Sylvia Plath

Good list of a bunch of people I've never heard of. I came across Silliman randomly. I was sitting in one of the computer labs at my school and looked over and saw this critical essay titled "Aesthetics of Poetry: A Manifesto" or something like that and he was listed as one of the authors. I checked out the Chinese Notebook (which is available online somewhere) and I thought it was great. I know very little about him or his significance. You should educate the class or lead us to a place where we could conduct our own research...

thought his shit ruled though. First line reading "Wayward, we weigh words" or something like that. Yes! haha

Daddy

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time---
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been sacred of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You----
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two---
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

Get Yrself some Larkin

W.B. Yeats.
and
Bukowski has already been mentioned, but he's great.

Allen Ginsburg dude


https://notes.utk.edu/bio/greenberg....ElemFormat=jpg
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at
dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient
heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the
machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high
sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool
eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
cohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering coud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
lyn

https://notes.utk.edu/bio/greenberg....3?OpenDocument

if you're gonna read howl, king_buzzo, get a book. the copy and paste job above screwed with the line breaks.

and definitely read Howl.

Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Lawrence Ferlighetti, Peter Orlovsky...

Steven Jesse Bernstein
Reagan Butcher

Damn Straight!

arthur rimbaud

...anyone know a good translation of illuminations? the one i have ranges from decent to terrible.



o mon bien! o mon beau! fanfare atroce où je ne trébuche point! chevalet féerique! hourra pour l'œuvre inouïe et pour le corps merveilleux, pour la première fois!


gets translated as:



oh my good! oh my beauty! mind-blowing jive that won't mess with my footwork! cool torture, far out! let's hear it for the good shit they can't hear and for the luscious body, this first time around!



fanfare atroce = mind-blowing jive?
chevalet féerique = cool torture, far out?

...nothing wrong with some beat poetry, but not when i'm trying to read rimbaud...

yeah ginsberg is probably my favorite poet. i just ordered his early poetry and journal collections for less than 5 bucks.

jesus, those translations are fucking dire - please tell me they weren't found in book and instead were on someone's blog or something because it sounds like somebody doing a bad mimic of a bongo beatnik.

i've got a bilingual complete poems trans. by paul schmidt and although i don't read french well enough to comment on the accuracy they are fantastic poems in themselves.

what about Thurston ? Is he good?

a good number of people like him though IMO he is a really lousy poet. there are so many better poets to read who are doing something exciting w/language, not something that wasn't even that exciting 50 years ago.

thanks! a lot of nice stuff!


she was like the only thing that i knew before making this thread :o, but i have to get more of her stuff.

yep that is awesome, but as racehorse said, i should and will get books; i tried to read it over the internet but its not as good and it is kind of boring staring into a screen.

After Howl get kaddish by Ginsberg.

OK. Nakahara Chuya

Well look at this! - Here are my bones,
Once having brimmed with the hardships of life,
Now stripped of all their filthy flesh
And bleached white by the rain
Along the sharp and jutting edges.

Don't mistake it for a luster,
The bleached appearance tricks the eyes -
Having drunk their share of rain,
Having been buffeted by the wind,
They simply reflect hints of the sky.

And when you think that these are the same bones
That when alive sat in the dining hall
Among the crowds of people,
The same bones that ate boiled honey-wort,
What else can you do but laugh?!

Well look at this! - Here are my bones -
Being looked at by me? How funny!
Has my spirit somehow remained,
Only to find these bones again,
To find itself looking at them?

Along the edge of a stream in my village,
They loiter in a withered patch of grass,
Being looked at- by me?!
Standing as tall as an old sign-board,
My bleached bones are poking into the air.

Ginsberg
Wallace Stevens
TS Eliot
William Blake
Walt Whitman
Federico García Lorca

My list reflects what I enjoyed at university :D

No. No no no no no.

you probably ought to go ahead and pick up a copy of Ginsbergs collected poems from 1947-1980. The best $25 you'll ever spend, promise.

extra vote for richard brautigan. half the fun is finding his books since they're out of print.

Read this, and then read Totenfuge by Paul Celan, or if you can't read German, get a translation, preferably by Pierre Joris. You'll find a lesser translation, but still brilliant, on the internet via Google. Then see how superficial the above Plath poem seems - the greatest crime when dealing with subjects like the Nazi death camps is superficiality - skimming the surface - it's amost barbaric. Celan's is a real poetic evaluation of the horrors of the Nazi camps which takes into full account the absurdity of actually creating art after the Holocaust - it really puts a stake in your heart.

William Blake - innocense and experience, heaven and hell, the four zoas
John Milton - paradise lost
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - wreck of the hesperus
Emily Dickinson - collected works

i shall put up a link to ginsberg reading howl in the next hours or so if anyone wants it

I can't say I particularly like Allen Ginsberg, but I found this to be really sincere and touching: Father Death Blues

http://www.yousendit.com/transfer.php?action=batch_download&batch_id=bkhjb2 4zT2J0TW5IRGc9PQ

howl