Not too long ago, maybe a month, I made a comment on poetry that you liked, but you never got to answer in its entirety. Well, here it is, (though the shrewd observations might be too shrewd for a body going through a respite after some operation:
My responce to the Tuesday, February 20, 2007 post:
I know this is an old post, but I simply have to share this:
The Sick Rose by William Blake
O rose, thou art sick: The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
And Eddie, I'm suprised that you quoted Keats, as he is in quite a diffrent class than Ginsberg or Plath.
And as for sincerity..., well, let's just say that I'm fond of Harold Bloom's paraphrase of Oscar Wilde: "All bad poetry is sincere".
Now, sincerity, I suppose is welcome in "low" arts like animation, but when you mix "sincerity" with high art, lesser talents crumble, like, in my opinion, Plath, Ginsberg, and Kerouac.
Whitman has more to do with high modernism than with low rent rhasphodists.
Here's Ginsberg:
I'm crying all the time now. I cried all over the time when I left Seattle Wobbly Hall. I cried listening to Bach I Cried looking at the flowers in my backyard in my backyard, I cried at the sadness of the middle aged trees.
Happiness exists I feel it. I cried for my soul, I cried for the world's soul. The world has a beautiful soul. God appearing to be seen and cried over. Overflowing heart of Paterson.
Here's Whitman:
We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out before you, You up there walking or sitting, Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.
Here's T.S. Eliot:
We have lingered in the champers of the sea By sea-girls weathered with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown
And my favorite line from all Eliot's poetry, from The Wasteland,
These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hiroymo mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih
Of these three, who do you think harbors the deepest waters?
Uncle Eddie, I hope you are out of the hospital soon and feeling better after surgery. I enjoyed your latest poetry video, sort of a cross between Percy Dovetonsils and Miss Frances! You should have a regular show on local TV being host to a cartoon or old westerns show. Get well soon, Every Good Wish, Mark Kausler
Oppo: Wow! Nice post! I like Eliot best of the three you mentioned, though I don't think he ever wrote anything as good as Prufrock again. Keats is better than Plath or Ginsberg. I really like Keats' "On Reading Chapmann's Homer."
Hurry back, Mr.F!
ReplyDeleteHi, Eddie, get well, soon.
ReplyDeleteNot too long ago, maybe a month, I made a comment on poetry that you liked, but you never got to answer in its entirety. Well, here it is, (though the shrewd observations might be too shrewd for a body going through a respite after some operation:
My responce to the Tuesday, February 20, 2007 post:
I know this is an old post, but I simply have to share this:
The Sick Rose by William Blake
O rose, thou art sick:
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
And Eddie, I'm suprised that you quoted Keats, as he is in quite a diffrent class than Ginsberg or Plath.
And as for sincerity..., well, let's just say that I'm fond of Harold Bloom's paraphrase of Oscar Wilde: "All bad poetry is sincere".
Now, sincerity, I suppose is welcome in "low" arts like animation, but when you mix "sincerity" with high art, lesser talents crumble, like, in my opinion, Plath, Ginsberg, and Kerouac.
Whitman has more to do with high modernism than with low rent rhasphodists.
Here's Ginsberg:
I'm crying all the time now.
I cried all over the time when I left Seattle Wobbly Hall. I cried listening to Bach
I Cried looking at the flowers in my backyard in my backyard, I cried at the sadness of the middle aged trees.
Happiness exists I feel it.
I cried for my soul, I cried for the world's soul.
The world has a beautiful soul.
God appearing to be seen and cried over. Overflowing heart of Paterson.
Here's Whitman:
We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out before you,
You up there walking or sitting,
Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.
Here's T.S. Eliot:
We have lingered in the champers of the sea
By sea-girls weathered with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown
And my favorite line from all Eliot's poetry, from The Wasteland,
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hiroymo mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih
Of these three, who do you think harbors the deepest waters?
Yes, get well uncle Eddie.
ReplyDeleteGet Well.
"Your face will throw the pie"
ReplyDeleteThat's brilliant!
Get well soon, Eddie! We love you!
- trevor.
That was wonderful, Eddie! I hope your surgery goes smoothly.
ReplyDeleteI don't buy that excuse... what did you do with the real Eddie? Wait... were you he one who put him in the hospital?
ReplyDeleteUncle Eddie,
ReplyDeleteI hope you are out of the hospital soon and feeling better after surgery. I enjoyed your latest poetry video, sort of a cross between Percy Dovetonsils and Miss Frances! You should have a regular show on local TV being host to a cartoon or old westerns show. Get well soon,
Every Good Wish, Mark Kausler
Mild Uncle Eddie is quite the poet!
ReplyDeleteGet well, Uncle Eddie
ReplyDeleteOppo: Wow! Nice post! I like Eliot best of the three you mentioned, though I don't think he ever wrote anything as good as Prufrock again. Keats is better than Plath or Ginsberg. I really like Keats' "On Reading Chapmann's Homer."
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