{"id":4267,"date":"2009-05-01T11:22:50","date_gmt":"2009-05-01T15:22:50","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=4267"},"modified":"2016-05-01T11:09:59","modified_gmt":"2016-05-01T15:09:59","slug":"collisions-between-poetry-and-other-stuff","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2009\/05\/collisions-between-poetry-and-other-stuff\/","title":{"rendered":"Collisions Between Poetry and… Other Stuff"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

[Artist’s rendering above depicts “planets colliding in a sun-like binary system about
\n300 light-years from Earth, in the constellation Aries.” Click image for more info.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

Poetry<\/strong><\/p>\n

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this
\nfiddle.<\/span>
\nReading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers <\/span>
\nin<\/span>
\nit after all, a place for the genuine.<\/span>
\nHands that can grasp, eyes<\/span>
\nthat can dilate, hair that can rise<\/span>
\nif it must, these things are important not because a<\/span><\/p>\n

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
\nthey are<\/span>
\nuseful. When they become so derivative as to become <\/span>
\nunintelligible,<\/span>
\nthe same thing may be said for all of us, that we<\/span>
\ndo not admire what<\/span>
\nwe cannot understand: the bat<\/span>
\nholding on upside down or in quest of something to<\/span><\/p>\n

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
\nunder<\/span>
\na tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that <\/span>
\nfeels a flea, the base-<\/span>
\nball fan, the statistician —<\/span>
\nnor is it valid<\/span>
\nto discriminate against “business documents and<\/span><\/p>\n

school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make
\na distinction<\/span>
\nhowever: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result <\/span>
\nis not poetry,<\/span>
\nnor till the poets among us can be<\/span>
\n“literalists of<\/span>
\nthe imagination” — above<\/span>
\ninsolence and triviality and can present<\/span><\/p>\n

for inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them,” shall
\nwe have<\/span>
\nit. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,<\/span>
\nthe raw material of poetry in<\/span>
\nall its rawness and<\/span>
\nthat which is on the other hand<\/span>
\ngenuine, you are interested in poetry.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Marianne Moore [source<\/a>]<\/em>)<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The wind blows hard among the pines
\nToward the beginning
\nOf an endless past
\nListen: you’ve heard everything.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Shinkichi Takahashi [source<\/a>]<\/em>)<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Wind<\/strong><\/p>\n

Give it words,
\nStick limbs on it,
\nYou won’t alter essence.
\nWhereas the wind—<\/p>\n

I’ll live gently
\nAs the wind, flying
\nOver the town,
\nMy chest full of sparrows.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Shinkichi Takahashi [source<\/a>]<\/em>)<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

I mean, finding the real lyrics now would be like finding that some other long-cherished artifice of memory wasn\u2019t strictly true, as if your dad wasn\u2019t really that strong or your first girlfriend, really, wasn’t all that pretty.<\/p>\n

All this may be literally true. But that’s the problem with the literal truth:<\/p>\n

It has very little poetry. And it sure as heck ain’t got no soul.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Paul Farhi, “Mangled lyrics say a lot about the manglers”: Chicago Tribune<\/em>, 2008-06-16 [source<\/a>]<\/em>)<\/p>\n

Finally, well, there’s not much I can add to this:<\/p>\n