|
. . . . . . This may be the best I've seen from you... I don't have a thing to suggest about any changes. . . Though I often say "IMneverHO" -- this poem inspires me to say IMHO. . . VERY sensual and VERY hot at the same time. . . I've always liked that. . . You mention about poetry being very personal -- many believe that because their poetry is an expression of a powerful feeling that THEY have, others will just automatically feel that from their writing -- no matter what they write. . . You CONNECT with people in your writing -- you express the power of your feelings so well in such simple direct terms that nevertheless flow so smoothly that other people can't help but experience them vicariously. . . THAT'S good poetry!!! . . I've mentioned before poets from other countries who are considered national HEROES by the people in general -- much of their work is simplicity itself -- yet unmistakably eloquent... speaking straight to the heart. . . Springsteen was touted early in his career as "the new Dylan". Personally, I like Springsteen's "poetry" better as it's simple and direct -- yet artfully crafted. Dylan has written some amazing things, but often I look at some of his work and think, "What the fuck was THAT all about?" Very deep (almost certainly -- sometimes only because others say so as I can't see it), but so subjective that only hipsters say, "Wow, man -- I've said that exact same thing!!" . . A thread earlier asked about our (recent) greatest poet. I don't know about greatest, but my favorite is Gary Soto out of California. There was a poster on the buses in Philly that showed little tiny works by poets, and he had one that was only about 4 or 5 lines about a man who had picked in in the fields all day and had come home to sit under a tree in his back yard and drink tea and watch the sun go down. It was profoundly beautiful -- it was a simple human experience expressed simply yet so deeply. I haven't been able to find it anywhere online... and I've spent some time looking. . This is one of my favorites of his -- one of the first of his that I read... an early work -- again simple yet profound. Able to reach into the hearts of the people. . . You keep doing what you're doing. Simply and profoundly. . . I think the title of the book this was in came from the last line in this poem, "A Fire in My Hands". . . . Oranges . The first time I walked With a girl, I was twelve, Cold, and weighted down With two oranges in my jacket. December. Frost cracking Beneath my steps, my breath Before me, then gone, As I walked toward Her house, the one whose Porch light burned yellow Night and day, in any weather. A dog barked at me, until She came out pulling At her gloves, face bright With rouge. I smiled, Touched her shoulder, and led Her down the street, across A used car lot and a line Of newly planted trees, Until we were breathing Before a drugstore. We Entered, the tiny bell Bringing a saleslady Down a narrow aisle of goods. I turned to the candies Tiered like bleachers, And asked what she wanted - Light in her eyes, a smile Starting at the corners Of her mouth. I fingered A nickle in my pocket, And when she lifted a chocolate That cost a dime, I didn't say anything. I took the nickle from My pocket, then an orange, And set them quietly on The counter. When I looked up, The lady's eyes met mine, And held them, knowing Very well what it was all About.
Outside, A few cars hissing past, Fog hanging like old Coats between the trees. I took my girl's hand In mine for two blocks, Then released it to let Her unwrap the chocolate. I peeled my orange That was so bright against The gray of December That, from some distance, Someone might have thought I was making a fire in my hands. . . . Gary Soto . . .
|