Gold and Diamonds

Gold? Diamond? What the hell does this have to do with poetics, poesy, the whole hole of the escape-and-return of writing it?

Not studying it. Writing it, ya big boob!

Wait! For when the Muse is missin' . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_s8Uk1-rGB8

Write it. Writing it. Writing it now, eh. Writhing around with the snaky son-a-bitch on the floor and wrestling to the three count win-of-it. I'll bet yer two-bit income obsessed poetry prof instructors haven't been much help with that. But then, if you're enrolled in a uni class it's likely an elective, or even worse, you're too fucking lazy to get a real job and write like a wildman when you get home. Head on fire, Baby. Hara too-ah. Yeah, that beat up kitchen table, rottin' out chair, the scrrrrratchy-stainy linoleum floor, yer computer that whirs all the while when you're using it and, with any luck the odd diamond surrounded by fibers of gold in them lines, you fool.

There, that oughta handle any more linking to this site via some college coarse-course. 

Okay, no prob, Bra. A very fat man is getting into a very small car. The car tilted to one side. "Tilted to" Minor gold. Now, The car rocked, etc.
Much finer. Diamond. Thank You, JoeGee. Let's go here, Princess . . .

Car. Rocked. The sonics in that simple example, eh. Sonics in that simple sample would be overkill. The sounds, you dummy! Are you a writer or not. Car. Rocked. Something of a mirrored sound of "car" forms the sound of "rock". Plus-and-now-also. the sound of the words "car rock" in some small way in this example-sample sound a wee bit like the sound of a car rocking suddenly. Car Rock. Reverse in some ways, sonic-wise. These are very fundamental writing skills that are under attack by cellphone-blip text A-Holes who think they're "writing" when in effect they're headless chickens pecking and no more. And, as an added bonus, this approach, this slack-man lazyboy approach to writing soon becomes the standard, leaving little but blind readers to play with. Car. Rock. Diamond! Keep an eye or two and at least one ear out for it when you read in the future.

Good God Almost Mighty! It's a near-revelation of the revolutionary epiphany va-variety!

The piece of that sorta thing that I was near to content with, in the last ten years anyhow, would be from a small deal I wrote for my Father, some time before he passed on over and out of it.

Argyle socks on fallen arches,
slip-sliding 'cross the white tile floor . . .

And on it went from there to tell a little story, of being old, being ignored, yet still having the flame brightly alive and burning even though all the busy-busies refused to see it right there in front of their blind ambition eyes. I was, like I said, near happy with it, with the whole of the one page deal that took away my spare time for a couple months. Those two lines took, damn and man, back and forth, yes, no and maybe only maybe, a few weeks to get straightened out. Off and on, I'll admit, but often enough. Then, of course, there was the usual of attempting to produce lines to follow it, to complete the story being told, at a level close to equal to those two intro lines. So, tell me about 'natural gifts' once more and the ease of being lyrical.

But I don't know, really. Maybe the whole stinkin' thing you just read could be an example of what it's trying to say.

No idea, no worries, no muse,
no sweet dying cry.
Youse know what I meaned. 

Again

Fluorescents flicker, sending light into dark. 
In expectation of sweat, a favorite towel is unfurled.

Heft of an empty bar, placed in the rack, and 
brushed with briskness to heighten knurling's caress.

How, for a moment, preemptive mental sets 
form deeply dreamt success;
and now it is time . . . 
over which effort builds upon attempts.

At the summit there is grinding,
eyes blind to all else
until again,
the wait 
begins. 

The pain awaiting
The waiting, again . . . 

A gain . . . 
Waiting ahead.   

You gotta be a lifter to know what in hell that rough wee piece of fluff is about, I suppose. And if you are, I do indeed welcome you here! Onward, upward and outward and remember one thing above all: 

ENJOY YOUR LIFTING! 

All right already. I'll fess up to spending more time than the recently-usual amount with this thing/stuff/poem-deal here. I wanted to write a lifting poem, not that bloody lifting, not an optimistic and lilting poem that lifts . . . A WEIGHTLIFTER'S POEM YOU NINNY! Waiting for the bus I played in my head with waiting, again, and a gain. On the train I wished I had a scrap of paper or even a pen so it hadda be in the head, and on a side note, doing crossword puzzles without a pencil is cool too, 'cause, he blathered boldly on, you have to remember all the already done fillzed in answers in that silly head-a-yours. Where was I? On the train, yeah, goin' to work at the library on Sunday, trying to "see the world today" without naming or use of symbol-labels and sadly indeed sans Chevrolet while writing this lifting poem. Okay, you've stopped reading by now I hope. Counting the McThinking time there, and the write-typing and go back editing the fucking thing time, well, I'm gonna give this one two hours as a marker of whether or not I have worth to others, okay? But honestly I'm lying. After having my heart broken last night by a loved one or two I did spend around 30, 45 minutes tops with this idea shortly following that series of events.

Does the sleepy time count? May have dreamed/dreamt about it and do not know fer sure with all that much certainty. No matter, fuck off and enjoy your writing!   

The Poem

"The poem reveals itself only to the ignorant man."
 - Wallace Stevens



This world and its machinations
Can enclose one in a net
When viewed through the haze
Of symbols' castrations.

Get thee behind me, oh alphabet impure!
You screw up the now, and that's fer damn sure.

Trees, birds and fishes speak quite bloody clear
Yet find no need for these A-B-and-C-ers.

Seek ignorance of symbols to send bliss within
Lose the weight of labels and fly high once again.

Name not, lest ye be blinded, for
To see the world, leave the word behind.


20 minutes. It's good to time how long you spend on one-a these silly things.
Or maybe not. Whatever . . . 20 minutes.

A question for the learned in this stuff . . .
Is it best to include and count the time it takes to count the time it took?
I'll get back to ya on that. Research aplenty and outside input needed here!

And also, a quick note to all and any tossers using this blog as a teaching aide in some distant uni poetics class. Have at 'er, have some fun with the silliness of our pastime presented, and next time around do me a solid, eh . . . At least have the decency to respond when I send you an email stating how happy I am the favor was of some use. Academia, eh. The height that you-know-the-word can be stacked is always impressive! We could put a man or five on Mars via-climbing if that pile weren't so slick and slippery.