Silliman's Blog-Jack Kerouac

Silliman seems to be the go to guy when it comes to contemporary poetry. Of course, I making a very broad assumption since I'm not really in the contemporary poetry scene. Nevertheless, when clicking around, I saw that he had some of his posts tagged as "Beat Poetry". What is beat poetry? Well, I thought it had to do with the beating of the drum, or something similar. That the poetry was written or read in a way so that it seemed to have a beat. Upon a quick Google search, I was informed that beat poetry refers to the beat generation of the 1950's in which a group of American writers rejected mainstream values and experimented with drugs and alcohol to increase their interests intellectually.

Silliman posts a little video regarding a book about Jack Kerouac who was an important figure in the beat generation. Seen as someone who was able to take something ordinary, and see it in a different light. He was able to see thing, hear things, and feels things in ways others could not, and describe them in his own poetry. The anti-mainstream America topic is also fairly prominent when reading one of his poems.

Bus East

by: Jack Kerouac

Society has good intentions Bureaucracy is like a friend
5 years ago - other furies other losses -

America's
trying to control the uncontrollable Forest fires, Vice

The essential smile In the essential sleep Of the children Of the essential mind

I'm
all thru playing the American
Now I'm going to live a good quiet life

The
world should be built for foot walkers

Oily
rivers Of spiney Nevady

I
am Jake Cake
Rake
Write like Blake

The
horse is not pleased Sight of his
gorgeous finery
in the dust Its silken
nostrils
did disgust

Cats
arent kind Kiddies anent sweet

April
in Nevada - Investigating Dismal Cheyenne Where the war parties
In fields
of straw
Aimed over oxen At Indian Chiefs
In wild headdress Pouring thru
the gap
In Wyoming plain
To make the settlers
Eat more dust than dust
was eaten In the States From East at Seacoast Where wagons made up To dreadful
Plains
Of clazer vup

Saltry
settlers
Anxious to masturbate The Mongol Sea (I'm too tired in Cheyenne -
No sleep in 4 nights now, & 2 to go) 

Bacteria Poetry

My knowledge of science is limited to elementary school projects regarding beans. If it's not about a bean sprouting, then it is out of my field of knowledge. So you must understand that when this article talks about a man by the name of Christian Bok taking a bacteria and encoding a poem into it's genome so that it can create another poem (or whatever it is doing), I'll probably have very little to say on the topic. From what I read, the point of the experiment is to take a poem that he has created, encode it into the bacteria and then see if they (the bacteria) can create their own poem through the manufacturing of proteins. He uses a computer program to decipher....stuff.....and from there I just get completely lost. 

 In my mind, this guy is teaching bacteria how to make poems so that they can infect other bacteria with poetry which then can later infect larger organisms with poetry to the point that a human baby will be able to recite a poem as soon as it's born. If that is the case, then that sounds awesome. 

But I'm probably wrong.

 Hence why I am in an art program and not in anything related to science. 

Opinions on Random Poems

[as freedom is a breakfastfood]

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

as freedom is a breakfastfood

or truth can live with right and wrong

or molehills are from mountains made

—long enough and just so long

will being pay the rent of seem

and genius please the talentgang

and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow

or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair

and every finger is a toe

and any courage is a fear

—long enough and just so long

will the impure think all things pure

and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind

and robins never welcome spring

nor flatfolk prove their world is round

nor dingsters die at break of dong

and common’s rare and millstones float

—long enough and just so long

tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice

down shall go which and up come who 

breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs

deeds cannot dream what dreams can do

—time is a tree(this life one leaf)

but love is the sky and i am for you

just so long and long enough

[as freedom is a breakfast food] is, sadly, not about breakfast foods. Or food in general. From my perspective, the poem seems to be about things that are the opposite of what they are (or that seem to have nothing to do with each other, like freedom and breakfast) and it makes you think about the way we perceive  ideas. The last stanza, however, makes me think that it is a love poem, but I think it would be easier to understand the poem if I knew the context. Despite it tricking me into thinking about food, I enjoy this poem because it is quite engaging. 

This poem, however, I'm fairly sure is a love poem.....

[love is more thicker than forget]

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly

and less it shall unbe

than all the sea which only

is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win

less never than alive

less bigger than the least begin

less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly

and more it cannot die

than all the sky which only

is higher than the sky

The definition of love is one of the more difficult emotions to describe. Cummings attempts to describe the emotion of love by comparing it to feelings,objects,places etc. that we are already familiar with. Since the order of the word confuses me to no end, I can't say for sure that I completely understand what love is, by the poet's description, it seems to be something nice.

from Cabbage Gardens

BY SUSAN HOWE

The past

will overtake   

alien force   

our house   

formed

of my mind   

to enter

explorer

in a forest   

of myself

for all

my learning   

Solitude

quiet

and quieter   

fringe

of trees

by a river

bridges black   

on the deep   

the heaving sea   

a watcher stands

to see her ship   

winging away   

Thick noises

merge in moonlight   

dark ripples   

dissolving

and

defining

spheres

and

snares

             Place of importance as in the old days

stood on the ramparts of the fort

                                                 the open sea outside   

alone with water-birds and cattle

                        knee-deep in a stream

grove of reeds

               herons watching from the bank

henges

      whole fields honeycombed with souterrains   

human

                        bones through the gloom

       whose sudden mouth

surrounded my face

                      a thread of blue around the coast   

                                                         feathery moon   

eternity swallows up time

                                     peaceable as foam

                        O cabbage gardens

summer’s elegy

                        sunset survived

The word "alien force" made me automatically think about an invasion, not necessarily by extraterrestrials. The battle seems to be going on from the sea, but it has moved onto land as well, and the cabbage garden, the title of the poem, seems to represent a place of peace or the time before the war. The shorter lines increases the pace of the poem which I think is interesting.

from Hinge Picture

BY SUSAN HOWE

“Crawl in,” said the witch, “and see if it’s hot enough to put the bread in.”
—Hansel and Gretel

All roads lead to rooms. —Irish Proverb

a stark

                  Quake

               a numb

                  Calm

                      *

               clutching my Crumbl

               ejumble

                  among

               Tombs and

               in Caves

                  my

                Dream

                Vision

               Oarsman, oarsman,

                  Where have you been?

               I’ve been to Leafy,

               I’ve dismembered the Queen.

               Oarsman, oarsman

                  What did you there?

               I hid in a cleft,

               I braided the air.

hearing our oars where their freed goatsteps sped   

and are silent

by an extinct river

O Babylon when I lay down

alert for sliding cataracts

where in corridors the print of dancing feet   

beyond poise I am prey

posing in snow-light

being of human form

clothed in the scales of a fish

Count him a magician

he controls the storm

walked on the sea shouting   

that he is the Logos of God

that he is the Word original and first begotten

attended by power

upheld by his mother

(a very active gesturing baby)   

what if Simon Peter Jesus himself   

walked among the cold stone faces

shouting NIKA

emptyeyed blanksmiling

                            Swiftness divination these false gods

                            their commerce is the cloud

                            so they can learn what is preparing in the sky   

                            Artificer of the universe

                            Magician who controls the storm

                            to see you in one spot

                            I count the clouds others count the seasons   

                            Dreaming of archipelagos and the desert   

                            I have lived through weeks of years

                            I have raked up fallen leaves for winter   

                            after winter across an empire of icy light

Light of our dark is the fruit of my womb

or night falling through the reign of splashes   

Liquid light that bathes the landscape in my figure   

Clairvoyant Ireland

eras and eras encircled by sea

the barrows of my ancestors have spilled their bones   

across the singing ear in hear or shell   

as wreck or wrack may be in daring   

There were giants on the earth in those days   

feasts then on hill and fort

All night the borders of my bed

carve paths across my face

and I always forget to leave my address   

frightened by the way that midnight

grips my palm and tells me that my lines   

are slipping out of question

Divorce I manumission round

with a gentle blow the casting branch

my right hand My covenant

was garment concealed or mask or matron

Proceed with measured step   

the field and action of the law   

Like day the tables twelve   

whip torch and radiate halo   

Sky brewing coming storm   

Faraway over the hill

when Hell was harrowed

and earth was brought to heel   

how the hills spread away   

how the walls crumbled   

deathcolored frozen in time

Where was the senate   zone and horizon

Where are the people   mountain of light to the east   

Tell them I sail for the deep sea rest

a painless extraction a joyful day   

bird of passage over all I love   

Goodbye to all the little fir trees   

of the future

               far   off    in    the    dread

               blindness    I   heard   light

               eagerly   I   struck   my foot

               against    a      stone      and

               raised    a    din    at    the

               sound    the   blessed    Paul

               shut   the   door   which   had

               been   open   and   bolted   it

Intially, I thought this poem would be a like an epic; telling the story of a man who thought he was stronger then Gods. But towards the middle I got completely lost as it seemed to deviate to something different. I enjoyed the pacing of the poem, however, where it starts off slow and builds to the chorus before slowing down again. I may not know what it's supposed to mean, but I'm assuming the middle part was probably the most important part.

Seasons of the Heart by Linton Kwesi Johnson

Beguiled by blue moon
Oh, enchanting light
We lost our way like lovers sometimes do
Searching, wide-eyed, for wild flowers
In the fragrant forest of the night

Now memories slowly drift on by
Like grey clouds against the somber Winter sky
And all our yesterdays are now become
The Springtime of our days

Life is the greatest teacher
Love is the lesson to be learned
Like how the heart’s seasons shift
How the sweet smelling blossoms of Spring
Are soon become the icy arrows of Winter’s sting

How Spring, intoxicated by the sun
Now throws off her green gown
And Summer’s golden smile is soon become
The frown of Autumn’s brown

How passions spent
We droop, like sapless vines
In the Winter of our minds

 Another poem attempting to describe love, this time describing the falling in and out of love with the seasons. A lot more straightforward then the other poems I've just read, it makes it easier to understand the message of the poem when you don't have to spend several hours researching what the poet was really talking about. Since Spring is widely considered to be rebirth, or beginnings, the poet obviously starts the description of the first feelings of love with the description of spring. 

Yout Rebels by Linton Kwesi Johnson

I couldn't find the actual poem on the web and I'm too lazy to actually type it out SO you'll have to take my word for it. The poem is about the black youth who the poet feels will change their own futures in regards to racial discrimination. The way he writes and spell the words he uses, makes it sound like the way someone would speak, if they spoke like a Jamaican. The poem is fun to read, especially with a group of people who think you are just being weird and purposely trying to do an accent.