National Poetry Month: Issue 12
Another poem from the land down under, home of one my all-time favorite bands, The Church and another really great one in, Midnight Oil.
Featured again is a poem by Karo Barsamian. Like myself, Karen is a fan of Richard Brautigan's prose and poetry. I have long romanticized his and the other beat generation writers' lives and deaths. Recently I read an article in The Sun magazine about a guy, a writer, who had done the same thing. He in some ways lived a life like Brautigan or Kerouac thinking it was the fate of all "brilliant" creative writers to be anguished, lonely, drifting substance abusers. Luckily, he met a woman and came to his senses. The article was titled Father Junipero Admonishes A Bird, by Poe Ballentine. A couple of the poignant lines from it are:
"I began to reconsider my beloved Jack Kerouac, who was so steadfast in his adolescent stands against society and conformity that he had no choice but to die young and unhappy.Wouldn't it have been better if he had put down the bottle before it was too late and begun to write about his new sober, reflective life?"
or this one,
"You cannot drink yourself to greatness, but many greats drink themselves into the grave"
It's a great article in a quality magazine. I read The Sun from cover to cover every month.
Here's another of Karo Barsamian's poems. (Formatting may not be true to original)
Sitting in Church by Karo Barsamian
Touching my leg where the bristle turns to down,
I think of the reflective surface of my mother's legs,
their glare and properness beneath a Sunday skirt.
The perpetual smoothness of my father's hand
never brushed against it in the pew,
while other men touched their wives' kneecaps like a scepter,
fingertips articulate on the skin.
I think of the untouched perfection of my mother's legs
while feeling the roughness of my own.
Karo Barsamian's bio information was not available at the time of this post.
Blogging off...
Featured again is a poem by Karo Barsamian. Like myself, Karen is a fan of Richard Brautigan's prose and poetry. I have long romanticized his and the other beat generation writers' lives and deaths. Recently I read an article in The Sun magazine about a guy, a writer, who had done the same thing. He in some ways lived a life like Brautigan or Kerouac thinking it was the fate of all "brilliant" creative writers to be anguished, lonely, drifting substance abusers. Luckily, he met a woman and came to his senses. The article was titled Father Junipero Admonishes A Bird, by Poe Ballentine. A couple of the poignant lines from it are:
"I began to reconsider my beloved Jack Kerouac, who was so steadfast in his adolescent stands against society and conformity that he had no choice but to die young and unhappy.Wouldn't it have been better if he had put down the bottle before it was too late and begun to write about his new sober, reflective life?"
or this one,
"You cannot drink yourself to greatness, but many greats drink themselves into the grave"
It's a great article in a quality magazine. I read The Sun from cover to cover every month.
Here's another of Karo Barsamian's poems. (Formatting may not be true to original)
Sitting in Church by Karo Barsamian
Touching my leg where the bristle turns to down,
I think of the reflective surface of my mother's legs,
their glare and properness beneath a Sunday skirt.
The perpetual smoothness of my father's hand
never brushed against it in the pew,
while other men touched their wives' kneecaps like a scepter,
fingertips articulate on the skin.
I think of the untouched perfection of my mother's legs
while feeling the roughness of my own.
Karo Barsamian's bio information was not available at the time of this post.
Blogging off...
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