- FactsAreUseless
- Feb 16, 2011
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One of my favorite poets is Richard Hugo, who's hugely important in northwestern poetry. His collection "What Thou Lovest Well Remains American" is a classic. He mostly writes about small western towns, and his poems mostly focus on themes of poverty and the rural working class. A good example of his work: Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg.
For more contemporary poetry with a similar American history focus, there's Gabrielle Calvocoressi. She's fairly new, but has already received several awards. Her collection The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhart is excellent, especially "At the Adult Drive-In," a multi-part poem that appears throughout the collection.
For women poets I also like Cate Marvin, especially her collection Fragment of the Head of a Queen. I don't know a whole lot else about her, I just read the collection.
On the subject of women poets, I've always liked Anne Sexton, a contemporary of Sylvia Plath. I prefer her work to Plath's, but she tends to get overlooked because of Plath. Her best-known poem is "For My Lover, Returning To His Wife.
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Feb 13, 2014 06:35
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Apr 28, 2024 14:41
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- FactsAreUseless
- Feb 16, 2011
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Billy Collins is the Robert Frost of poetry.
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Mar 5, 2014 07:32
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- FactsAreUseless
- Feb 16, 2011
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Robert Edson posted:It’s a scientific fact that anyone entering the distance will grow smaller. Eventually becoming so small he might only be found with a telescope, or, for more intimacy, with a microscope....
But there’s a vanishing point, where anyone having penetrated the distance must disappear entirely without hope of his ever returning, leaving only a memory of his ever having been.
But then there is fiction, so that one is never really sure if it was someone who vanished into the end of seeing, or someone made of paper and ink...
So, prose poetry. What do you think of it? Does it count as "real" poetry? I'm quite fond of prose poetry, since I think poetry's defining characteristic isn't its rhythm or structure, but its density of thought and content.
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Mar 6, 2014 06:25
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- FactsAreUseless
- Feb 16, 2011
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Also suggest some poets for me. Im always depressed and usually like it that way,
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Nov 16, 2014 21:04
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- FactsAreUseless
- Feb 16, 2011
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My name's Samuel Coleridge and I'm here to rime / Killing an albatross means bad times!
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Mar 20, 2015 13:23
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- FactsAreUseless
- Feb 16, 2011
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*turns hat backwards* drat, teach! Poetry is dope! You've inspired me to go to college, just like Odysseus did!
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Mar 20, 2015 13:28
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- FactsAreUseless
- Feb 16, 2011
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[Fade out. Fade in on snowglobe, being held by dual English/Education major at Boise State University]
"One day... I will live up to your legacy, Hilary Swank."
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Mar 20, 2015 13:32
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Apr 28, 2024 14:41
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- FactsAreUseless
- Feb 16, 2011
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Anybody read Margaret Atwood's poetry? I just finished The Handmaid's Tale and enjoyed it, so now I'm curious to read her poetry, although I don't know what it's like.
quote:
The world is full of women
who’d tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they’d say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I’ve a choice
of how, and I’ll take the money.
I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it’s all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything’s for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, rear end, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can’t. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape’s been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there’s only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it’s the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can’t hear them.
And I can’t, because I’m after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don’t let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I’ll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That’s what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They’d like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don’t hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I’m not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you’ll burn.
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Jun 10, 2016 14:28
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Feb 13, 2014 06:35
