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The Lost Poems of San Francisco Sitting in a corner booth, Kerouac in hand, Cassady on my mind, A poem looked right into my eyes and I, in a fit of free verse, failed to see. Crossing the street, two blocks down from City Lights, a taste of Ginsberg on my lips, Ferlinghetti phrases filling my head, a poem brushed close and I, in a swirl of imagery, ignored the touch. Gathering in the park, old friends and literature, discussing commas and Corso, the value of rhyme and the freedom of reason, a poem passed by and I, deep in the stream of consciousness, barely felt the breeze. Later, alone beneath a reading lamp, I searched yesterday's musings, looking for all those lost poems. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Elaine Marie Phalen On Date: 2005-08-07 19:21:57
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
What a fresh and compelling read!
We spend so much time in analysis that we miss the joy, the pleasure, the fun of it all. We're so set on the "right" style, the perfect borrowing, the most brilliant expression of our own Muse, that we fail to appreciate how it might be done, and the way others have handled the challenges that we believe are ours alone. We tend to "admire the problem" but never arrive at a solution that will work for us. It can be easier to discuss than to do.
"A fit of free verse " (yes, and it can definitely be that at times); a "swirl of imagery" (sometimes overdone and cloying, right?); "the stream of consciousness" (or some other style-of-the-moment, equally incomprehensible) --- we feel that these must be our tools, because others have used them and been praised for doing so. We therefore jettison what may be our greatest strengths in pursuit of what's trendy. We want to borrow from everyone and become no one. We defy self-classification and fear to be out of step.
I love the assortment of names you include here! These are inspiring people with jagged perspectives; the Beat poets were nothing if not original and brave for their times. But unless we read, and read wisely with attention to what the poets are actually writing, we can run the risk of taking away not an iota of imagination or understanding. Then we do, indeed, miss the poetry for the poetics, the message for the medium. We become so obsessed with how we should write that we can't actually DO it.
I think those "lost" poems are not only those of poets unrecognized, but also fragments of the speaker's own, unborn creations --- never realized, because he had no clue they were even gestating. Too late, he senses missed opportunities.
Gene, I always enjoy your work and this one is no exception. In fact, I liked it well enough to grab it off the finalists' list and respond to it.
I hope all's going your way and that summer is treating you kindly.
Brenda