Guest guest Posted March 19, 2003 Report Share Posted March 19, 2003 sampatron@... wrote: > In a message dated 5/17/2003 10:20:35 AM Central Daylight Time, > dwatkins5@... writes: > > > most poetry is bad, however, especially these days - e.g., _Sex and > > the City_, for example. > > > > This is a poem? Since I don't have cable, I have never seen it. I wasn't > aware that there was poetry on TV on a regular basis. You haven't missed much. Almost everything on TV is poetry these days (even much of what purports to be fact) - maybe it was ever thus, but imo the popular poetry is getting worse. Regards, Dan > > > Namasté > > Sam in Texas §(ô¿ô)§ > Minds are like parachutes; they only function when open. - Sir Dewar > A closed mind is a good thing to lose. > " Minds are like parachutes; most people use them only as a last resort. " > ~Ben Ostrowsky > Some minds are like concrete, thoroughly mixed up and permanently set. > ~mrantho > A sharp tongue and a dull mind are usually found in the same head. > " Life makes you walk that delicate balance between Making > It Happen and Letting It Happen. " -- Rick Beneteau > > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted March 19, 2003 Report Share Posted March 19, 2003 Yes, my idea of poetry is poesis - made up stuff - as opposed to logos, about fact, reason or science. Almost everybody likes poetry, but it seems that almost nobody likes good poetry. I like some bad poetry myself, but then, I like cigars, whiskey, fast food, indolence, and antique gas-hogging cars, too. You can't really go by my tastes :-). Regards, Dan sampatron@... wrote: > In a message dated 5/17/2003 1:13:54 PM Central Daylight Time, > dwatkins5@... writes: > > > Almost everything on TV is poetry these days (even much of what purports to > > be fact) > > Ah, well, if that's your idea of poetry it explains your statement about > poetry being less than worthless . Poetry is definitely not everyone's > cuppa. > > Namasté > > Sam in Texas §(ô¿ô)§ > Minds are like parachutes; they only function when open. - Sir Dewar > A closed mind is a good thing to lose. > " Minds are like parachutes; most people use them only as a last resort. " > ~Ben Ostrowsky > Some minds are like concrete, thoroughly mixed up and permanently set. > ~mrantho > A sharp tongue and a dull mind are usually found in the same head. > " Life makes you walk that delicate balance between Making > It Happen and Letting It Happen. " -- Rick Beneteau > > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 12, 2003 Report Share Posted May 12, 2003 Dear Greg, You wrote: > --- Dan & Watkins wrote: > > all we have left is poetry, which is > > worse than useless. > > Dan, > > Surely you're not saying poetry is " worse than > useless. " What is your meaning here? > Well, to the degree that poetry is made up stuff, as implied by the name, then in the search for truth, it is less than useless ( " less than " because it not only is not real, but it can be mistaken for the real - it is not only false, but potentially misleading). The exception is when a piece of poetry *does* in some sense teach the truth, or point to the truth, or is otherwise conducive to discovering the truth - i.e., the exception is when the poetry is also philosophy, or perhaps to the degree it is philosophy, as with the Platonic dialogues, for example (fictional accounts of the " dissecting " dialectic). Politically, whether or not poetry is worse than useless depends on whether or not it is conducive to the public good, or whether or not it is edifying (Plato's Socrates in _The Republic_ suggests ousting all of the poets *except* those willing and able to support only the opinions supportive of the regime, if memory serves). I think that no one will doubt that most contemporary poetry (_Seinfeld_ comes to mind, for some reason) fails to meet such a standard. wrote: <dwatkins5@u...> wrote: > Otherwise, all we have left is poetry, which is worse than useless. > " Those are soul-numbing, stifling words -- I hope you've never said them to a child. Maybe you could ask the meadow lark of what use is his song. " I'm not sure I understand the comparison - one is a strictly natural phenomenon, the other completely artificial. What I *might* say to a child in this regard is that television is 96.29% worthless poetry, and that he/she shouldn't watch too much of it. Junk food for the soul. Sam wrote: " Oh Greg, you took the bait! " I think that Greg has known me long enough to know that there is sometimes some method to my madness. Alice wrote: " AW, DAN1 say not so! u know better than that............ love ao, poet " Please see semi-grudging qualifications above :-). Still way prefer straight logos, though. Best, Dan Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 12, 2003 Report Share Posted May 12, 2003 Thank you so much . And thanks so much for the DHLawrence. That he was strong and brave enough to leave us his work, his heartfelt and deeply searched thoughts. He's been such a dear close friend for some 30 years--the very human man left there in the work. The mystery of the soul. Let no one limit what it is to be human. Lawrence wrote this not long before his death. Like Jung, he knew part of him dwelled there even as he lived: .. . . . his hand came with a strange blind instinct and gathered her breast and held it as in a cup, in sleep. If she moved, and shifted his hand away, it came back by itself, stirring, groping, till it had her breast again softly enclosed, while he slept. And she lay encircled in his arm, feeling as if her very soul were cupped in the soft hollow of his hand. It was a kind of prison: a prison! Yet she knew she could break it. So she lay perfectly still, as in a kind of inertia, in the circle of his arm, letting her breast rest like an egg in the strong, warm cup of his hand. Her heart was sad, and wouldn't let her sleep. And something flickered like a spark of irritation in her mind. It was what he had told her, about Bertha Coutts and about himself. She found nothing extraordinary in it. Yet her heart hurt her, because she had felt the bitterness and the hate of him. His desire for sex intercourse, and his hatred of sex! His desire for woman, and his hatred of women! This made a gnawing soreness in her heart. Now, he slept absolutely motionless, keeping her within the circle of his arm, her breast like a fruit on the tree, in the hollow of his hand. And now he seemed really at peace, he seemed to have achieved his own peace, perhaps at the expense of her own. While she would lie still and submissive in the circle of his enclosing arm, he was at peace, and his wounds were closed. But the moment she broke away, he would wake, and memory would open like a wound. She could feel the slow, strong thudding of his heart, as he held her against him. And it made her think of that other strange creature in him, the erect, sightless, overweening phallus. A little frightening that had been, in its erect, blind overweening. And somehow she realised that it was the soul of his phallus, the overweening blind male soul in him, that had been wounded all his life, wounded through his mother and his step-father from the beginning of his days, and whose wound gaped with the pain and hatred of sex. Because, his phallus was rooted in his soul, and rose erect from the soul's deeps, in naive pride of creation. And it was this queer, sightless, mindless phallic nature that had been hurt in him all his life, and whose wound only closed now, in sleep, while she lay submissive in the circle of his flesh. Vaguely, she realised for the first time in her life what the phallus meant, and her heart seemed to enter a new, wide world. . . From JOHN THOMAS AND LADY JANE (the second version of Lady Chatterley's Lover) Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 12, 2003 Report Share Posted May 12, 2003 Dan wrote: >>Huh? Dialogue *is* dissection, as far as I know.>> And ignored the rest. But that you think the above is obvious (oft demonstrated) and to you great loss. Deborah Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 13, 2003 Report Share Posted May 13, 2003 Thanks Deb - I was first introduced to Lawrence in the diaries of Anais Nin back in the 70s. She described him as one of the few men who truly understood women. But I hadn't read this beautiful passage from Lady Chatterly's Lover -- I'm so biased - I've stuck mainly to the poems. His connection to the divine feminine is apparent in so many of them as is his concern for the earth and her creatures. Contributing to the 'atrocity exhibition' of the current U.S. regime, we see our gov't taking a huge step backward, once again intending great harm to the environment and to non-human others in the name of profits. So I offer this, another poem by Lawrence, as a way of speaking for those who need allies among our kind, and a way of speaking my human grief. Mountain Lion Climbing through the January snow, into the Lobo canyon Dark grow the spruce-trees, blue is the balsam, water sounds still unfrozen, and the trail is still evident. Men! Two men! Men! The only animal in the world to fear! They hesitate. We hesitate. They have a gun. We have no gun. Then we all advance, to meet. Two Mexicans, strangers, emerging out of the dark and snow and inwardness of the Lobo valley. What are they doing here on this vanishing trail? What is he carrying? Something yellow. A deer? Que tiene, amigo? Leon-- He smiles, foolishly, as if he were caught doing wrong. And we smile, foolishly, as if we didn't know. He is quite gentle and dark-faced. It is a mountain lion, A long, long slim cat, yellow like a lioness. Dead. He trapped her this morning, he says, smiling foolishly. Lift up her face, Her round, bright face, bright as frost. Her round, fine-fashioned head, with two dead ears; And stripes in the brilliant frost of her face, sharp, fine dark rays, Dark, keen, fine rays in the brilliant frost of her face. Beautiful dead eyes. Hermoso es! They go out towards the open; We go on into the gloom of Lobo. And above the trees I found her lair, A hole in the blood-orange brilliant rocks that stick up, a little cave. And bones, and twigs, and a perilous ascent. So, she will never leap up that way again, with the yellow flash of a mountain lion's long shoot! And her bright stiped frost-face will never watch any more, out of the shadow of the cave in the blood- orange rock, Above the trees of the Lobo dark valley-mouth! Instead, I look out. And out to the dim of the desert, like a dream, never real; To the snow of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, the ice of the mountains of Picoris, And near across at the opposite steep of snow, green trees motionless standing in snow, like a Christmas toy. And I think in this empty world there was room for me and a mountain lion. And I think in the world beyond, how easily we might spare a million or two humans And never miss them. Yet what a gap in the world, the missing white frost-face of that slim mountain lion! > Thank you so much . And thanks so much for the DHLawrence. That > he was strong and brave enough to leave us his work, his heartfelt > and deeply searched thoughts. He's been such a dear close friend for > some 30 years--the very human man left there in the work. > > The mystery of the soul. Let no one limit what it is to be human. > Lawrence wrote this not long before his death. Like Jung, he knew > part of him dwelled there even as he lived: > > . . . . his hand came with a strange blind instinct and gathered her > breast and held it as in a cup, in sleep. If she moved, and shifted > his hand away, it came back by itself, stirring, groping, till it > had her breast again softly enclosed, while he slept. And she lay > encircled in his arm, feeling as if her very soul were cupped in the > soft hollow of his hand. > It was a kind of prison: a prison! Yet she knew she could break it. > So she lay perfectly still, as in a kind of inertia, in the circle > of his arm, letting her breast rest like an egg in the strong, warm > cup of his hand. Her heart was sad, and wouldn't let her sleep. And > something flickered like a spark of irritation in her mind. > > It was what he had told her, about Bertha Coutts and about himself. > She found nothing extraordinary in it. Yet her heart hurt her, > because she had felt the bitterness and the hate of him. His desire > for sex intercourse, and his hatred of sex! His desire for woman, > and his hatred of women! This made a gnawing soreness in her heart. > > Now, he slept absolutely motionless, keeping her within the circle > of his arm, her breast like a fruit on the tree, in the hollow of > his hand. And now he seemed really at peace, he seemed to have > achieved his own peace, perhaps at the expense of her own. While she > would lie still and submissive in the circle of his enclosing arm, > he was at peace, and his wounds were closed. But the moment she > broke away, he would wake, and memory would open like a wound. > > She could feel the slow, strong thudding of his heart, as he held > her against him. And it made her think of that other strange > creature in him, the erect, sightless, overweening phallus. A little > frightening that had been, in its erect, blind overweening. And > somehow she realised that it was the soul of his phallus, the > overweening blind male soul in him, that had been wounded all his > life, wounded through his mother and his step-father from the > beginning of his days, and whose wound gaped with the pain and > hatred of sex. Because, his phallus was rooted in his soul, and rose > erect from the soul's deeps, in naive pride of creation. And it was > this queer, sightless, mindless phallic nature that had been hurt in > him all his life, and whose wound only closed now, in sleep, while > she lay submissive in the circle of his flesh. > > Vaguely, she realised for the first time in her life what the > phallus meant, and her heart seemed to enter a new, wide world. . . > > From JOHN THOMAS AND LADY JANE (the second version of Lady > Chatterley's Lover) Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 17, 2003 Report Share Posted May 17, 2003 > > >Otherwise, all we have left is poetry, which is worse than useless. > Really, Dan? I would say that poetry might be the thing that saves us. Marilyn -- A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle. ~ Majors Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 17, 2003 Report Share Posted May 17, 2003 In a message dated 5/17/2003 10:20:35 AM Central Daylight Time, dwatkins5@... writes: > most poetry is bad, however, especially these days - e.g., _Sex and > the City_, for example. > This is a poem? Since I don't have cable, I have never seen it. I wasn't aware that there was poetry on TV on a regular basis. Namasté Sam in Texas §(ô¿ô)§ Minds are like parachutes; they only function when open. - Sir Dewar A closed mind is a good thing to lose. " Minds are like parachutes; most people use them only as a last resort. " ~Ben Ostrowsky Some minds are like concrete, thoroughly mixed up and permanently set. ~mrantho A sharp tongue and a dull mind are usually found in the same head. " Life makes you walk that delicate balance between Making It Happen and Letting It Happen. " -- Rick Beneteau Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 17, 2003 Report Share Posted May 17, 2003 In a message dated 5/17/2003 1:13:54 PM Central Daylight Time, dwatkins5@... writes: > Almost everything on TV is poetry these days (even much of what purports to > be fact) Ah, well, if that's your idea of poetry it explains your statement about poetry being less than worthless . Poetry is definitely not everyone's cuppa. Namasté Sam in Texas §(ô¿ô)§ Minds are like parachutes; they only function when open. - Sir Dewar A closed mind is a good thing to lose. " Minds are like parachutes; most people use them only as a last resort. " ~Ben Ostrowsky Some minds are like concrete, thoroughly mixed up and permanently set. ~mrantho A sharp tongue and a dull mind are usually found in the same head. " Life makes you walk that delicate balance between Making It Happen and Letting It Happen. " -- Rick Beneteau Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 17, 2003 Report Share Posted May 17, 2003 Dear Marilyn, Not impossible, I suppose - depends on the poet. I will continue to maintain that most poetry is bad, however, especially these days - e.g., _Sex and the City_, for example. Regards, Dan Marilyn Geist wrote: > > > > > >Otherwise, all we have left is poetry, which is worse than useless. > > > Really, Dan? I would say that poetry might be the thing that saves us. > > Marilyn > > -- > A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle. > ~ Majors > > > " Our highest duty as human beings is to search out a means whereby beings may be freed from all kinds of unsatisfactory experience and suffering. " > > H.H. Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th. Dalai Lama > > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted May 17, 2003 Report Share Posted May 17, 2003 In a message dated 5/17/2003 2:03:03 PM Central Daylight Time, dwatkins5@... writes: > my idea of poetry is poesis - made up stuff - as opposed to logos, about > fact, reason or science Sure, as in hematopoesis, but then, that's made up stuff we measure by science to determine a fact and use our reason to decide if it's functional enough or not to support life. But that kind of poetry is generally only appealing to old lab techs like me. *G* >but then, I like cigars, whiskey, >fast food, indolence, and antique gas-hogging cars, too. You can't really go by my >tastes :-). As far as I'm concerned your tastes are just fine; it's your ideas that totally baffle me. I bet you'd love my old '67 Skylark convertible. It's all original - except for the top, of course, and the carburetor. There just wasn't any way to rebuild the carburetor - again. Oh, and the water pump; those aluminum water pumps just didn't work with the cast iron blocks for some reason. I suppose it's that dissimilar metals thing. One more thing; it's a standard shift. Not too many Buicks that aren't automatics. Oh, and the owner is the original, too. ;>) Well, off to eat my poetic dinner that wasn't what I'd planned to make at all but I made it up with what I had and somehow it all came together and now we'll top it off with a good cabernet. Namasté Sam in Texas §(ô¿ô)§ Minds are like parachutes; they only function when open. - Sir Dewar A closed mind is a good thing to lose. " Minds are like parachutes; most people use them only as a last resort. " ~Ben Ostrowsky Some minds are like concrete, thoroughly mixed up and permanently set. ~mrantho A sharp tongue and a dull mind are usually found in the same head. " Life makes you walk that delicate balance between Making It Happen and Letting It Happen. " -- Rick Beneteau Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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