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Sonnets


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Posted

The sonnet is:

-a fourteen-line, rhymed poem. (Don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise!)

-often, but not always, in iambic pentameter.

-the most widely-used poetic form in the English-speaking world today.

-the most widely-used poetic form for the past five centuries of English-language poetry, excepting the Augustans. Their loss.

-a great place to begin if you want to write poetry, or if you want to gain a better appreciation of metrical poetry!

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Posted

:davidm:, since you mentioned wanting to see some Shakespeare analysis, I’ll start the thread off with one of his most well-known sonnets: 130.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red, than her lips red:

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound:

I grant I never saw a goddess go,

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,

As any she belied with false compare.

In this sonnet, the narrator-- elsewhere implied to be the poet himself-- starts by giving a realistic assessment of his mistress’s appearance, subverting many of the conventions of the day, and concludes by declaring that she’s none the worse for not measuring up to them. And, moreover, that the hyperbole he’s poking fun at is really no compliment at all.

A couple notes on points that might mislead the modern reader: describing hair as golden wires was conventional-- the wires are the sort a jeweler might use. And ‘reeks’ did not have the strongly negative connotations it has now. So at no point does the poet actually disparage his mistress’ appearance, voice, or breath. He only makes it clear that he’s talking about a human being and not a goddess.

It's easy to see why so many readers have found this sonnet appealing. Considered by itself, the sonnet seems humorous and charming. In the first of the ‘dark lady’ sonnets, 127, the poet denounces the beauty given by cosmetics as “Art‘s false borrowed face”, and this one denounces the falsification of beauty by a different art-- “false compare”. But later in the sequence, the poet claims that he can't find anything in his mistress’ appearance or personality to justify his love for her, and that his calling her fair was a “foul lie”. It was “body’s treason” all along. It isn‘t just art that can be false, but his own eyes! In that larger context, the closing couplet of this sonnet may be a false reassurance.

More later. :yup:

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Posted

Very nice, :tzela: Interestingly, in his contribution to the joint novel project The Pood, our own :davey: used this sonnet, spoken by one of the five men who share a single penis, to woo the whore Holace Orr, who lacks a vagina but makes up for it with other sexual athletics. However, Dave chose to rewrite the final lines to include the provocative word "minger." But the man who recited the sonnet to Holace had been deceived by one of his five penis-sharing compatriots, and the offended Holace seized the poem from the poor man's hand, tore it to pieces and stomped upon it. After that, she dragged poor Bill Z. Bubb on to the dance floor, and forced him to try to dance, but he clopped about maladroitly on his two left cloven hooves, while Florence Jellem, poetess of pot roast, looked on pityingly.

Please write more, I love Shakespeare. :clap2:

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Posted (edited)

Here is the aforementioned scene. :eyebrows:

Just then the front door to the bar flew open and when it did a bolt of lightning split the sky. A blue-white wash of electric light filled the bar and backlit the figure standing in the door, holding the door open.

“She always makes a grand entrance,” the barkeep remarked admiringly.

It was Holace Orr. That electric wash of light silhouetted her. When the light subsided what was revealed to the eye was a matronly figure in strumpet’s attire, decked out in a clinging red miniskirt, platform shoes, cheap fishnet stockings, a halter-top bra, a feather boa slung around the shoulders and a florid hat with a lonely wilted rose affixed to it with a hatpin. Heavy facial powder did not succeed in hiding her wrinkles. Heavy black eyeliner only partly succeeded in obscuring the bags under the eyes, both of which were bloodshot. A cigar jutted out of the side of the mouth.

“Holace!” Paolo burbled, eyes lighting up. Hoping to meet her he had dressed for the occasion, in his prized Raccoon Lodge tie with the raccoon stickpin, plaid pants and two-tone shoes. He now pulled a sheaf of paper out from his pocket. It contained a Shakespeare sonnet: a love sonnet, Archie had told him. “Read it to her,” he had encouraged Paolo. “It will make her fall for you.”

Paolo had scanned the sonnet with dubiety. He wasn’t educated and disliked Shakespeare, but Archie had insisted that the Bard had written the greatest love poems in the English language.

“I don’t know,” Paolo had said, reading over the sonnet again. “There’s something fishy about this. It sounds sarcastic. What’s a ‘minger?’”

“It means ‘gem of the eye,’” Archie had insisted with an encouraging nod and a wink, giving his friend a pat on the shoulder.

Paolo had then eyed his friend and rival for the affections of Holace, who was along with himself and the other three men the co-proprietor of the penis in a perfume jar, and demanded: “Why are you trying to help me with Holace? You’re after her just as much as I am.”

Archie had affected a wounded expression. “Don’t you think I can be generous once in awhile? Don’t you think I can have some magnanimity, too?”

“No, I don’t, Archie. You’re a total shit.” But Paolo knew, at least, that Shakespeare was an important name, and so he decided to take his chances with the sonnet.

Now, as Holace stood in the doorway, Paolo cleared his throat and read slowly and with great emphasis from the manuscript in his hands:

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,

Coral is far more red than her lips red,

If snow be white, why then her breasts be dun,

If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked red and white

But no such roses see I in her cheeks,

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath which from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,

Music hath a far more pleasing sound.

I grant I never saw a goddess go,

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

And so, by Heaven, I declare I went too far

When flirting with this minger in that bar.

Silence reigned in the Hellfire Roadhouse after Paolo’s poetic presentation. He looked at Holace hopefully. She continued to stand in the doorway, leaning against the open door. A fresh gust of wind blew rain into the establishment, and another crack of lighting filled the sky, followed by a peal of thunder.

Holace suddenly tottered forward on her platform shoes, the door slamming shut behind her. All eyes were on her. The aging trollop waved her feather boa from side to side the way that a priest might wave a small censer from side to side to spread burning incense in an effort to ward off evil spirits. She strode up to Paolo, seized the sheaf of papers from his hand, tore them in two and threw them to the floor at his feet. “Bollocks to you!” the aging prostitute announced in a voice full of the gravel of decades of cigarette and cigar smoking. She yanked the cigar that she had been smoking out of the side of her mouth and stabbed it out on the bar counter.

Holace’s tale was a tragic one, not unleavened by comedy. A birth defect had left her without a vagina. But, as if conspiratorially, other genes had bestowed upon her an outsized libido. She was like a person without a mouth who nevertheless feels a burning need to scream. Rejected at a young age by the first boy with whom she had fallen in love, a boy who had told her frankly that he could not cope with the prospect of marrying a woman without a vagina, Holace took revenge on the world by becoming Hell’s hooker – a “high-class” hooker, as she styled herself. She did business out of the flashy house that she had inherited from her wealthy family. She had compensated for her lack of sexual organs by honing to a high degree the sexual athleticism of other key body parts. Over the years she had done a brisk business, but in truth the men who visited her regarded her as a kind of sideshow freak, and behind her back they belittled her. Inevitably their disparaging words got back to Holace, who became filled with malice. The contempt of her clients paradoxically made her redouble her efforts to pleasure them, which only inflamed their contempt for her. She and they were in a libidinous death spiral. Like anyone else, what Holace really wanted was love. But the boy who had dashed her hopes in this regard so many years ago had wounded Holace so deeply that she was not able to give or receive love; though she became quite adept at giving blow jobs and receiving cash (Visa and MasterCard also accepted) in return for them. Now past middle age, her dowdiness rendered all the more ridiculous her attempts at seducing men, and her clientele had dwindled to a few lonely widowers and the occasional horny virginal teen-ager.

But now, here, inexplicably and just recently, the five men who shared a single penis had gotten a woody for Holace Orr, but their feelings for her were no more serious than those that they had displayed (and expressed) so many years ago in Flo’s home ec class toward the watermelon, the soufflé, the slice of lemon meringue pie, the cored apple and the cheese sammich, which had been marinated in the mayonnaise of Paolo.

Paolo looked down in astonishment at the torn papers at his feet. “Minger indeed!” Holace roared at the stupefied would-be Lothario. “How dare you!” Someone had placed the penis in the perfume jar on a corner table, and now the detached member lustily forced open the cap of the bottle and began rising relentlessly toward the ceiling. Bubb, still bent over the bar like an old drunken sailor, watched it rise with squeamish distaste.

One of the five men, Alex, pulled Paolo aside and told him sotto vocce: “’Minger’ doesn’t mean ‘gem of the eye’, Paolo. It means, ‘fell out of the ugly tree and hit all the branches on the way down.’ Archie pulled a fast one on you, I’m afraid.”

:eek3:

Anyhow, sorry for the interruption, :tzela: I just wanted to put in a little Pood :poodsmall: plug. :)

Carry on. :wave:

Edited by davidm

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Posted

but Archie had insisted that the Bard was had written the greatest love poems in the English language.

You need to fix that.

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Posted

That is why I am copy editing this thing, Dave! :doh:

Anyway, let's give some encouragement to :tzela: to continue her poetics analysis, especially of Shakespeare. Love that Shakespeare! :yup:

Interesting article today at slate or salon about how Shakespeare was depressed over his writing and compared it unfavorably to that of others. Will dig it up later.

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Posted

That is why I am copy editing this thing, Dave! :doh:

And yet you posted the mistake in public as part of a plug. :nono:

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Posted

Now I am ACM ----> :angry:

Just deal with Shakespeare's sonnet, and let's get Tzela posting more :doh:

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Posted

Something that has always fascinated me: Lincoln and Sheakespeare

Some of Shakespeare's plays I have never read; while others I have gone over perhaps as frequently as any unprofessional reader. Among the latter are Lear' date=' Richard Third, Henry Eighth, Hamlet, and especially Macbeth. I think nothing equals Macbeth. It is wonderful. Unlike you gentlemen of the profession, I think the soliloquy in Hamlet commencing "O, my offense is rank" surpasses that commencing "To be or not to be." But pardon this small attempt at criticism. I should like to hear you pronounce the opening speech of Richard the Third.[/quote']

The rest of the article explicates Lincoln's probable preference for this passage. Lincoln's own life was either a Greek or Shakespearian tragedy, take your pick, so the link between Lincoln, a great writer himself, and Shakespeare, has always fascinated me.

FWIW, I disagree with Lincoln; the To Be or Not Be stuff is just as good as it gets in the English language.

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Posted

Interesting article today at slate or salon about how Shakespeare was depressed over his writing and compared it unfavorably to that of others. Will dig it up later.

I'd like to read that. :yup:

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Posted

Just deal with Shakespeare's sonnet, and let's get Tzela posting more :doh:

Be careful what you wish for.... :shakehead::twisted:

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Posted

Rhyme

Sonnet 130, like practically all of Shakespeare’s sonnets, is an Elizabethan sonnet-- or a Shakespearean sonnet, so called because he was the first to use its rhyme scheme:

A

B

A

B

C

D

C

D

E

F

E

F

G

G

This divides it into four distinct units: three quartets and a couplet. In this sonnet, the lines fall completely within these natural groupings: no enjambment links one unit to another, and the first two quartets are even full-stopped. Altogether, pretty normal for Elizabethan poetry.

The structure of the Elizabethan sonnet lends itself well to the working out of an idea, with a summing up-- often a witty or surprising one-- in the couplet. (Which is why Atropos’ presentation of the idle argument in Pantheon takes the form of an Elizabethan sonnet! :D ) Sonnet 130 is no exception. The three quartets develop the idea that the poet’s mistress cannot measure up to the usual poetic comparisons, and the couplet turns it around unexpectedly, putting the comparisons themselves to blame.

The technical name for this turn is the volta-- literally, ‘turn’ in Italian. Not all Elizabethan sonnets have this distinct turning-point, but when they do, it tends to be in line 13-- the first line of the closing couplet-- or in line 9, the first line of the third quartet.

So, basically, rhyme is essential to the structure of a sonnet. It isn't just the icing on the cake: it's what's holding the cake together!

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Posted

Very nice, :tzela: , please continue, and please apply more of your poetic talents to Pantheon. :yup:

I'm still editing Heretic's revision of the final chapter of v. 3. Remember we need an epic poem to finish it off. :finger:

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Posted (edited)

Meter

Iambic pentameter, naturally. But to begin with the basics:

An iamb is one of many sorts of poetic feet, or syllabic units. It consists of an unaccented syllable followed by an accented one. A line of iambic pentameter consists of five of these iambs. A sonnet has fourteen of these.

Iambic pentameter is the meter closest to the rhythm that spoken English falls into—you could say that it’s English’s most natural cadence, formalized. It’s easier to unintentionally speak in iambic pentameter than any other meter, and easier to fail to perceive that a line is written in it. Other languages have their own ‘default’ patterns. German, for instance, uses the same meters as English, but falls more naturally into trochaic ones— that is, meters with an accented syllable followed by an unaccented one.

A line of iambic pentameter consists of five iambs—but a poem in iambic pentameter doesn’t necessarily have five iambs in each line. Rather, it conforms closely enough to iambic pentameter so that the pattern of the iambic line is in the back of the reader’s or listener’s mind throughout the whole poem—an expectation to be met or broken, as the poet intends. It’s rare for a poem in iambic pentameter to conform entirely to the pattern, and even more rare for a poem to be in iambic pentameter without a single line being purely iambic, but good poems can be written either way. :yup:

A deviation from the meter of a poem is called a substitution, each substitution being named according to the kind of foot that is substituted. Shakespeare has used just one (unequivocal) substitution in sonnet 130:

Coral is far more red, than her lips red:

The first foot of this line, Coral, is a trochee: an accented syllable followed by an unaccented one. As a deviation from the pattern, it draws extra attention to the foot—you could think of it as being like syncopation in music, with the accent falling earlier than expected. (There are words, particularly ones borrowed from French, that have undergone changes of accent since Shakespeare’s time, but I don’t think this is one of them.)

Both far and her in this line are accented by the iambic meter, and so receive an extra bit of emphasis. In prose, you might write it, “Coral is far more red than her lips red.” But poets don’t get to use italics. If you read the poem with a prose line in the back of your mind rather than a line of iambic pentameter, you’re likely to miss out on nuances like these. (The far in line 10 is also accented. Both times, it’s the extent to which the poet’s mistress falls short that is emphasized.)

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

Both instances of 'wires', here, should probably be pronounced as one syllable each, so the line is a purely iambic one. In the Elizabethan era, poets freely abbreviated or elided words to fit their meter, so when you read a poem written in that time, you should probably keep to the meter wherever there’s a choice between keeping to it and deviating from it.

Heaven, in the penultimate line, would also be pronounced as a single syllable.

I have no idea how much of this is common knowledge, but considering that meter is on its way to becoming a lost art, I figure it can’t hurt to explain. Apparently, there are MFA programs in poetry that graduate students unable to recognize a line of iambic pentameter, much less write one. And then there are those poets who spread misconceptions about meter, mostly by denouncing it as a form of social oppression. (For every free-verse poet who would write in meter if they could, there’s one who refuses to do so for ideological reasons. Often, the two are one and the same poet.)

But what meter is all about—and rhyme, too, for that matter—is exciting and subverting expectation. It’s about giving every element in a poem, every word, image, and metaphor, an overdetermination, so that the end result is something all elements contribute toward, and that couldn’t possibly have been achieved any other way. It gives words, and what they express, concentration and potency—it is to unmetered language what a coiled spring is to a piece of wire with a couple bends in it.

Of course, you can use and enjoy meter without having the vaguest notion of what it’s doing for a poem, or having a notion that’s wrong. But misconceptions about meter have been accumulating for more than a hundred years now, and not all of them are harmless. It’s largely because of those misconceptions that writing in meter is so rare nowadays, and why so much of what does get written is unsatisfactory. :noidea:

Edited by Tzela Vieed

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Posted

I ought to do something with this thread. :scratch:

In the meantime, here’s a poem I found today that made me think of the Pood. :lol: (The reply form isn't letting me format the line indentations properly-- I'll have to see if I can fix that later.)

Sir Beelzebub

When

Sir

Beelzebub called for his syllabub in the hotel in Hell

Where Proserpine first fell,

Blue as the gendarmerie were the waves of the sea,

(Rocking and shocking the bar-maid).

Nobody comes to give him his rum but the

Rim of the sky hippopotamus-glum

Enhances the chances to bless with a benison

Alfred Lord Tennyson crossing the bar laid

With cold vegetation from pale deputations

Of temperance workers (all signed In Memoriam)

Hoping with glory to trip up the Laureate’s feet,

(Moving in classical metres)…

Like Balaclava, the lava came down from the

Roof, and the sea’s blue wooden gendarmerie

Took them in charge while Beelzebub roared for his rum.

…None of them come!

-Edith Sitwell

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Posted

Yes, it does, maybe I'll grab that for an opening poem (attributed, of course) to the main text. Thanks. :)

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Posted

Here's another sonnet:

Sonnet V

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,

That you were dead, not to return again—

Read from the back-page of a paper, say,

Held by a neighbor in a subway train,

How at the corner of this avenue

And such a street (so are the papers filled)

A hurrying man—who happened to be you—

At noon today had happened to be killed,

I should not cry aloud—I could not cry

Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—

I should but watch the station lights rush by

With a more careful interest on my face,

Or raise my eyes and read, with greater care,

Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

This sonnet—another Shakespearean sonnet— is one of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s best known. While there may not be much to analyze, there’s a good deal to admire. :yup:

The poem consists of one long, intricate sentence. While that sentence is full of conversational asides and parenthetical, apparently casual statements, the highly formal rhyme scheme moves the reader deliberately and irresistibly towards the closing couplet. It is this tension between form and content that makes the speaker’s casualness so plainly a feigned casualness.

Millay was a master of witty closing couplets, as demonstrated in other of her sonnets, but this one does something different. The couplet is almost anticlimactic—I read it as a renewed effort to keep up the act that began to slip at “I could not cry/aloud…”. While the casualness was clearly feigned from the beginning, only at that point is the speaker’s lack of concern for the ‘you’ of the poem also shown to be feigned. But the couplet still registers as the poem’s climax because of the change in rhyme scheme, and the contradiction seems to me to give it a sense of suppressed feeling. And it's all the more touching for coming after all the apparent unconcern.

As an aside: one trouble when a particular dictum—here and now, writing language as it is spoken—becomes ubiquitous is that people stop asking what it’s actually doing for a poem. Most poets nowadays agree that verse should be conversational, but when you look at what poets of the past have managed to do by combining conversational language and formal verse—for example, Robert Frost, A.E. Robinson, the much-maligned Georgian Poets, and, in some of her poems, Millay—the emotional range of conversational poetry being written today starts to look a bit narrow.

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Posted

Thanks for this post, :tzela: I'm curious to know, why do most poets nowadays think verse should be conversational? How and why does this become normative? While I think this is a very fine, subtle, artful conversational poem, I can think of lots of crap poetry that is conversational yet not in the least poetic, as I would deem poetry.

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I'm curious to know, why do most poets nowadays think verse should be conversational?

I don’t think there’s really a simple answer to that. Some write that way out of the belief that a poet should be representative of his time, and, as they belong to a time distinguished by its informal social relations, they must write informally; some think it will make their work appealing to a wider audience. The more traditionally-minded observe that conversational language has been the norm in poetry for a while now, and so they choose to write that way. Those who think it somehow stopped counting as tradition after Tennyson wrote often do so because they think they’re being innovative. It’s insane. :freakout: And the weirdest part is how all the poetry comes out so similar anyway.

But maybe there's a simple answer after all: that poetry is an art practiced entirely by amateurs, and hardly anyone feels it necessary to obtain much in the way of technical training. So many poets write the way they speak because it’s the only way they’re comfortable with. And while a subtle, artful conversational style may not be easier to come by than any other kind of style, it’s harder to achieve a truly spectacular failure in the lower registers. :lol:

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Posted (edited)

The problem for me is that much of the poetry I see in the informal, conversational style just doesn't seem very poetic. I've discussed this with Heretic, with respect to Bukowski. I like Bukowski's prose. But his poetry doesn't strike me as "poetry." Really, it just seems like prose sentences arbitrarily broken into pseudo-poetic lines.

Perhaps an interesting discussion would be to look at how prose and poetry differ, and what their respective aims are. To be sure there is overlap, but there must be fundamental differences, as well. And the difference isn't just that poetry must rhyme of have some metrical scheme, since free-form poetry has been around for a long time, yet still seems, when at its best, fundamentally different in aim and execution from prose.

Edited by davidm
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The problem for me is that much of the poetry I see in the informal, conversational style just doesn't seem very poetic. I've discussed this with Heretic, with respect to Bukowski. I like Bukowski's prose. But his poetry doesn't strike me as "poetry." Really, it just seems like prose sentences arbitrarily broken into pseudo-poetic lines.

Here, we get into a different issue: the prosody of the line break.

The Imagists were the first English-language poets to use line-breaks in this way: before them, rhythm was always the quintessentially poetic element in a poem, even for poets who eschewed meter. But many of them wrote poems that were meant to be read as ‘sculptural’—or you could say, they’re constructed in a way analogous to architectural structure rather than to musical structure.

Most free-verse poetry today is written with that same 'architectural' structure—which is how you also get significant indentations and spacing as well as significant line breaks. It all vanishes if you read a poem aloud, unless you read line breaks and spaces as pauses, which makes it virtually impossible for a poem that relies on line breaks to have an engaging rhythm, too. Either way, the final result is often hard to distinguish from prose, especially when the style is a conversational one.

I’ve never seen the appeal, myself. :noidea:

Perhaps an interesting discussion would be to look at how prose and poetry differ, and what their respective aims are.

It would make an interesting discussion. :yup: Perhaps another thread is in order.

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Posted

Let's continue this conversation, either in this thread or another if we want to discuss prose v. poetry. Nice editing job on V. 2 of Pantheon, btw. :yes: I'm doing yet another edit because we need to trim the words down. Alas there are just too many of them for the graphic novel format. If you want to take a whack at V. 3, feel free, though let me handle the prologue. It needs to be cut more than half, I think, and I imagine I'm the best to do that since I wrote it.

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Here's a Bukowski poem. But is it a poem? :noidea:

Are You Drinking?

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook

out again

I write from the bed

as I did last

year.

will see the doctor,

Monday.

"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-

aches and my back

hurts."

"are you drinking?" he will ask.

"are you getting your

exercise, your

vitamins?"

I think that I am just ill

with life, the same stale yet

fluctuating

factors.

even at the track

I watch the horses run by

and it seems

meaningless.

I leave early after buying tickets on the

remaining races.

"taking off?" asks the motel

clerk.

"yes, it's boring,"

I tell him.

"If you think it's boring

out there," he tells me, "you oughta be

back here."

so here I am

propped up against my pillows

again

just an old guy

just an old writer

with a yellow

notebook.

something is

walking across the

floor

toward

me.

oh, it's just

my cat

this

time.

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Posted

Yes, it is.

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