Writing, a poem by Charles Bukowski:

Writing

a poem by Charles Bukowski

1991

Often it is the only thing between you and impossibility.

No drink, no woman's love, no wealth can match it.

Nothing can save you except writing.

It keeps the walls from falling.

The hordes from closing in.

It blasts the darkness.

Writing is the ultimate psychiatrist,

the kindliest god of all the gods.

Writing stalks death.

It knows no quit,

and writing laughs at itself, at pain.

It is the last expectation, the last explanation.

That's what it is.

Antigonish / The Man Who Wasn’t There, by William Hughes Mearns (1899):

Antigonish / The Man Who Wasn’t There,
by William Hughes Mearns (1899)
 
Poem Excerpt:
 
Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
I wish, I wish he'd go away ...

The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost:

The Road Not Taken.
By Robert Frost.
Published in 1916.
 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

 

Robert Frost
(1874 – 1963)

Contribute a verse:

On the recent anniversary of what would have been the late-actor Robin Williams’ birthday, I was asked my favorite of his movies.
I’m a fan of much of his work, but of all his movies my favorite is Dead Poets Society (1989).
As a tribute, I quote this inspirational scene:

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute.

We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion.

And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.

But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

To quote from Whitman:

"O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?"

Answer: that you are here, that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.

That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.

What will your verse be?

A Dream Within a Dream, by Edgar Allan Poe:

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
 

Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe:

Originally published in 1845

This version published in: Richmond Semi – Weekly Examiner,

dated: September 25, 1849.

The Raven, illustrated by John Tenniel (1858)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door –

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow,

From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –

This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you" – here I opened wide the door; –

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" –

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore –

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before –

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster,

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,

Of 'Never – nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking,

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore,

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing,

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining,

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp – light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp – light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then me thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he hath sent thee,

Respite – respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!  – prophet still, if bird or devil!  –

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –

On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –

Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!  – prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting –

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp – light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted – nevermore!

The Raven, by Gustave Dore (1883)

 

In memory of Edgar Allan Poe.

January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849.

Poems place Johnny Cash in new light:

By Ben Sisario

New York Times

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Shortly before he died, Johnny Cash scrawled down eight short lines in a shaky hand, mortality clearly on his mind.

You tell me that I must perish.
Like the flowers that I cherish.

He considered the hell of ‘‘nothing remaining of my name,’’ before concluding with an affirmation of his own legacy:

But the trees that I planted
Still are young
The songs I sang
Will still be sung

That poem, ‘‘Forever,’’ is part of the collection ‘‘Forever Words: The Unknown Poems’’ (Blue Rider Press), released on Tuesday.

The book — edited by Paul Muldoon, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and Princeton University professor — includes 41 works from throughout Cash’s life that were among the papers left behind when Cash died in September 2003. He wrote the earliest piece, ‘‘The Things We’re Frightened At,’’ when he was 12.

In some ways, the poems mirror Cash’s songwriting, with terse ballads of outsiders in love and parables drawn from the Bible; Cash’s version of Job is a wealthy cattleman who ‘‘cried out in agony/When he lost his children and his property.’’

And, for Cash, who in his last years drew a new audience with a set of stark and fragile recordings, the poems present yet another look at a legend of American music.

‘‘I want people to have a deeper understanding of my father than just the iconic, cool man in black,’’ said John Carter Cash, his son. ‘‘I think this book will help provide that.’’
Some poems in ‘‘Forever Words’’ are unmistakably personal.

‘‘You Never Knew My Mind,’’ from 1967, captures Cash’s bitterness as he was going through his divorce from Vivian Liberto. (He married June Carter the next year.) ‘‘Don’t Make a Movie About Me’’ rejects the Hollywood machine but then slyly gives advice on a film treatment. ‘‘Going, Going, Gone,’’ from 1990, is a painfully detailed catalog of the ravages of drug abuse: ‘‘Liquid, tablet, capsule, powder/Fumes and smoke and vapor/The payoff is the same in the end.’’

At other times, Cash seems to tinker with his own body of work.

‘‘Don’t Take Your Gun to Town,’’ from the 1980s, rewrites his classic 1958 song ‘‘Don’t Take Your Guns to Town,’’ in which a headstrong young cowboy dies when he ignores his mother’s advice. In the new version, a jaded man plans a ‘‘Taxi Driver"-like rampage against ‘‘people/Who need silencing,’’ but this time he listens.

‘‘I believe he wanted to make a statement,’’ the younger Cash said. ‘‘He owned guns. But he definitely believed that you do not need to carry a gun in your pocket to town.’’

Even so, Cash kept that version private, although, along with a handful of the poems in the collection, the manuscript for ‘‘Don’t Take Your Gun’’ was sold at auction.

In his introduction, Muldoon places Cash in a poetic tradition that comes out of Scotch ballads. He also raises a point that was hotly debated after Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for literature last month: Are song lyrics really the same as poetry? Do lyrics lose something when removed from their musical context?

Like Cash’s lyrics, the poems in ‘‘Forever Words’’ are written in plain language, usually with a clear rhyming meter. There are strikingly evocative images (‘‘The dogs are in the woods/And the huntin’s lookin’ good’’), as well as some well-worn phrases about soaring eagles and hell’s fury that might pass unnoticed in a song but jump out on the page.

In an interview, Muldoon put Cash alongside Leonard Cohen, who died recently, and Paul Simon as examples of songwriters whose words hold up on their own. Even so, he said, the ‘‘pressure per square inch’’ on lyrics ‘‘can be a wee bit lower than in a conventional poem.’’

‘‘But that’s not necessarily a bad thing,’’ he continued. "There are occasions when the simple, direct phrase is the one that works.’’

Taken together, Muldoon said, Cash’s poems have a broad sweep.

‘‘You still see the same scenes — love, death, loss, joy, sadness,’’ Muldoon said. ‘‘The great themes of popular songs, and, indeed, poetry, which we welcome hearing about and making sense of as we go through our lives.’’

The poems in ‘‘Forever Words’’ were chosen from about 200 pieces left by Cash in varying states of completion. Some may have been intended as lyrics, his son said, but it was not always clear. His father’s papers, Cash said, included biblical studies and even a dog-eared copy of Gibbon’s ‘‘Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.’’

During the past year, the Cash estate has brought on a new management and marketing team and the album is one of many new projects. Also planned are a Broadway show and a Johnny Cash slot machine, and the trust recently registered trademarks for phrases like ‘‘What would Johnny Cash do?’’ to place on clothing memorabilia.

When asked about these plans, Cash said that he and the managers of the trust — of which he is a beneficiary — strove to avoid crass commercialization, and also wanted to follow his father’s wishes.

The goal of ‘‘Forever Words,’’ John Carter Cash said, is to establish his father as a major poet and a ‘‘cultural American literary figure.’’