standin' at your window honey yes i been here before . . . .
kneelin' 'neath your ceiling yes i guess i'll be here for a while
i'm tryin' to read your portrait, but i'm helpless like a rich man's child . . .
Another steamy morning dawns and the heat is sucking my brains out. I can't even feel to write poetry. Thinking of it now, I haven't written real poetry since I was nineteen or so and fell in love for the first time. Maybe it was that or it was too much listening to Dylan. At any rate rhythm took over and I lost my sense of discipline.
I used to write stuff like this:
If I had dwelt in quiet, like the shadow of dying day
Or sought to give
My strength to causes worn yet doomed to live
Spending strength to write
Words written long before, you could not bless
My efforts, be they silver-bright
Or gold inlaid.
Ecetera ecetera. I wrote two sets of sonnets, and the rhyme of alternating lines was my catchword. If I found Coleridge or Shakespeare or even Rupert Brooke using a pattern I hadn't seen before, I had to try it. That led to some pretty interesting stuff:
The road to Santiago is gold and green and gray
It shines by night in starlight and it shines in sun by day . .
Anyway now I seem to write Calvino-esque stuff(according to some people, though I've never heard of him) or else guttersnipe Dylan ballad-cant stuff:
don't take the shovel to me
cos you see me at your door
we've run this once through darlin'
you've broke my bones before
thought i saw you with him
wasn't even close to right
can you forgive me honey
i've been waiting here all night
there's no reason to feel jealous
i ain't in this for gain
spent the weekend in the gutter
and five days in the rain.
i'm tryin' to read your portrait, but i'm helpless like a rich man's child . . .
Another steamy morning dawns and the heat is sucking my brains out. I can't even feel to write poetry. Thinking of it now, I haven't written real poetry since I was nineteen or so and fell in love for the first time. Maybe it was that or it was too much listening to Dylan. At any rate rhythm took over and I lost my sense of discipline.
I used to write stuff like this:
If I had dwelt in quiet, like the shadow of dying day
Or sought to give
My strength to causes worn yet doomed to live
Spending strength to write
Words written long before, you could not bless
My efforts, be they silver-bright
Or gold inlaid.
Ecetera ecetera. I wrote two sets of sonnets, and the rhyme of alternating lines was my catchword. If I found Coleridge or Shakespeare or even Rupert Brooke using a pattern I hadn't seen before, I had to try it. That led to some pretty interesting stuff:
The road to Santiago is gold and green and gray
It shines by night in starlight and it shines in sun by day . .
Anyway now I seem to write Calvino-esque stuff(according to some people, though I've never heard of him) or else guttersnipe Dylan ballad-cant stuff:
don't take the shovel to me
cos you see me at your door
we've run this once through darlin'
you've broke my bones before
thought i saw you with him
wasn't even close to right
can you forgive me honey
i've been waiting here all night
there's no reason to feel jealous
i ain't in this for gain
spent the weekend in the gutter
and five days in the rain.