Posts tagged ‘on poetry’

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June 4, 2010

I know of no exceptions

by jhon baker
“Every writer, without exception, is a masochist, a sadist, a peeping Tom, an exhibitionist, a narcissist, an injustice collector and a depressed person constantly haunted by fears of unproductivity”- Edmund Bergler

 I am forced to take today off from the typewriter and do other things. Don’t take this as complaining, my distractions are human and interesting, thus may yield something fruitful when I do sit in front of the typer and write. I only comment on it at all for the simple reason that today I wonder if the creative drought has ended like I thought or does it continue even to now? I’ve certainly had greater periods of output and quality but isn’t this getting into the semantics of what I mean by creative drought?

my eyes sting and are watering making it hard to concentrate.

I quoted the above as this fear of unproductivity that haunts me even at this very moment.  Should writers be defined by their shared concerns and malady’s, reading the above assures me that I am a writer – I will gladly admit to any of those and more!

at the track

I don’t go to the track and so this
poem cannot get
written.

neither do I run (cannot)
or watch horses and dogs
chase rabbits or carry little men
and women.

however, should I need,
there are countless OTB
establishments around and a track
not too far away
in Arlington Heights, Il.

 – Hoc Scripsi

I live in Elgin so there is also a gambling boat nearby where I could go and blow my dividends or jerk off to the losing of heaps of cash while I witlessly hope I can win and become addicted to gambling. Another thing that can be added to the list is that most if not all writers have the addictive tendency, I mean this with much affection toward other writers and hope that they see the truth of these things and are not lying to themselves, but are these 100, truly without exception? Probably only 99 though I know of no exceptions.

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May 15, 2010

Sitting Idly

by jhon baker

I’ve lately been reading a book by Alix Strauss called ‘Death Becomes Them’ – it’s a morbid curiosity book about some famous suicides. Good read and I recommend, what I took from the book was further reassurance that we poets are the craziest/ most depressive bunch, a touch ahead of painters and fiction writers, of which I am all three. The other source is a study conducted by Professor Arnold Ludwig, M.D., of the University of Kentucky. The study was titled – methods and Madness in the Arts and Sciences which found better than 9/10 poets had a diagnosable mental illness (probably mostly Depression, bipolar/manic depression, and personality disorders) while visual artists and fiction writers were both in the seventieth percentile.
To me this says that the end of my life is predictable. Once I tire of the MDD (insofar), the chronic pain in thigh and hip and back, Tinnitus and susurrous murmur in my head enough the rest is knowable. On the other hand I am also in the category (according to Ms. Strauss’ research) where I am apt to avoid letting go, married with child – both of whom I adore. So, I guess who the fuck knows. I’ll continue in my obsession with death and suicide in the meantime.

death caressed his cheek and trigger
and sat idly waiting for the resolve.

I’ve noticed lately that my leg has gotten stronger and more capable. I can crouch down fairly easily now to do things like look at the .357s located on the bottom shelf of a display counter. The pain has been increasing with the strength which bothers me as I thought the opposite would be true and I am now more hesitant than ever to make the appointment with the doctor that I know needs to be made.

death/suicide
mental instability
weaponry (guns and knives)
aliens (the outer space sort who look in windows and take notes, also I thought for years that I was from Sirius or hoped rather)

forced voyeurism as being witness unwittingly
and at the moment the last one escapes me as it’s on the downgrade right now.

the shortlist of current obsessions.

Right handed – Left caned

I haven’t always needed three hands.

two had been sufficient.

now it is hard to hold a cane
and do other things as well as previous.

at least
while standing.

– Hoc Scripsi

things are getting weird now.

thank you Troy  – me

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May 5, 2010

Karl Marx spends today dead

by jhon baker

Karl Marx – revolutionary, author or pamphlets, economist and historian, an important figure to the history of man, an important name to begin many arguments between people who have probably never read said pamphlet.
Karl you are dead now but if you weren’t someone or someones would be breaking the copyright treaties and singing you happy birthday on live television probably, but maybe radio. That will not be me. I think it may happen even in death – China would be the place as there is no copyright treaty there or if there is, they don’t give a shit about it.
that is my chat about Marx this morning.

I am interested in the argument or the overall agreement of politics and art. Found this argument or agreement over at HTML and found the phrase  – ‘Art without politics is inconsequential.’ – Wow I said – I think that statement is huge and wholly incorrect. I believe art can only be about beauty and the reader/viewer/listener can apply whatever they wish to a piece. All good art renders some consequence and art about beauty or the bystander witness to anything certainly has importance, impact and other ‘i’ words but is by no means inconsequential. Once you make the definition of a word like politics so full of breadth it loses any potential meaning and is rendered useless but the poet.
If you’ve never seen beauty rendered so perfectly to your eyes/ears than I would suggest obtaining new eyes/ears.

Today’s poem does not lack the broader definition of politics.
Hey, listen. I’ve placed this one in this blog before but that was awhile ago and this morning I altered it when utilizing it elsewhere. So here it is again… 

short-form

pen made in Japan.
 paper in Italy.
  thoughts from Africa.
these hands from Spain.

I was born with knowledge,
baptized a Lutheran.
yesterday I was an African tribal Priest;
this morning I am an American Buddhist.

these are my interracial writings –
give love to all my brothers and sisters.

 – Hoc Scripsi

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April 28, 2010

brain cancer

by jhon baker

while noticing trends in older poetry that has started to correct in my writing, there is the thought to rewrite all of it to reflect the newer way and developed style of writing. I don’t think this is a smart habit to get into as you will never be done revising what has been written unless you rut your style. I’m not even sure I have a style beyond avoidance of certain things.
I’ve thrown away a lot of work as it was no longer a fit and I couldn’t justify keeping it around. It wasn’t genius and it wasn’t blowing anyone’s mind, not even then unless the listener was still a teenager, then everything dark and brooding is good. Maybe I’m only talking about my friends. Friends are terrible judges of art.
Friends don’t want to hurt your feelings, which is a problem as they should be the ones who know how to hurt your feelings in the most constructive way.

Americans cannot have a discussion on a topic where they disagree as a disagreement is seen as an assault.
Cell phones may cause brain cancer and you cannot prove a negative.
there are a lot of people who probably wouldn’t miss their brain if it were gone – if the brain stem were gone – that would be different. but only slightly.
I don’t mean to imply that people are stupid as much as people don’t use the squishy tool for anything other than twitter.
I don’t twitter as I am not a twit.
using twitter may not make you a twit.
I don’t know.
As my wife gets her iPhone I am considering bashing my own in order to not have one at all. As it is it is ‘lost’ currently and I am happy.
I love the phrasing – as it is it is.

On plane headed to Phoenix

Draw no maps on my body
From the air there are no
state lines or divisions
This is how it is
how I am
My self has no divisions
no maps
No way of existing
only being

Sand leads into water
water into rivers
rivers into dirt
no thought
just does
& the clouds are always
changing

 – Hoc Scripsi

This was written while I was on a plane heading into Phoenix. It was a layover so no-one there had a chance to ask for my papers. The layover lasted the length of time it took to get from one terminal to the other at a dead run. It may have been the last time I ran.

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