She was my favorite poet once. She was a genius. But I lost my taste for her after the sexual assaults on her daughter were confirmed by audio tapes. I don't want her cancelled or anything, I just can't hear her the same way. Especially not this one.
Your words made me consider the possibility that oftentimes art is born from the exhausting battle between our angels and our demons. Those with a piercing mind and a broken heart create to save what’s left pure out of them while those who manage to save both their souls and their minds oftentimes isolate themselves from the world and choose silence…
I don't know, perhaps you should trust her poems as they probably represent that part of herself, pure, that she managed to save 😉…. (Just out of curiosity, what’s wrong with this particular poem ?)
Nothing's wrong with poem, per se. I loved it once. It's just the celebration of sexuality now lands on me differently. I don't think that poetry represents the pure part of a writer. I think art often embraces shadow and light, and that's why it's not simply representation.
Sure, there are cases when art is corrupted by this battle and in some cases you might be right. For this particular poem though I would like to think that what was good in creator’s heart won
In my opinion, in many cases art is born in the fire of the battle between good and evil that grow within us and hence it is purified by this fire. It’s the pain emerging from the conflict and the tears that clean it
I hear you. I just don't think art is necessarily clean. I think it's everything. All the parts. Dark and light. Pain didn't make me pure or clean. It made me hurt and complex, and that's what I navigate and operate out of. So maybe it's just my perspective.
I took some time to think about what you said and maybe you are right after all. What I described above is how I envision the process of creating art. It’s more like an ideal scenario. I imagine the artistic process as being similar to peeling an onion. Along this process one removes layer after layer until he reaches at the essence of things and at the essence of his own heart. Assuming that all art is pure is assuming that humans are pure at their core and only their external layers are corroded by the environment, which is not true. That is where I was probably wrong. Humans are educated hunters, animals. At our core we aren’t necessarily good.
Returning to our initial conversation I would say that people tent to judge art globally as all or nothing when they should probably judge each manifestation of art separately because some of them might be a victory of evil in us but others might be an expression of good.
I breaks my heart. I mean, not comparable to what actually happened to her daughter, but so disappointing. I want to call her up and say, "You ruined this!"
Yes ma'am!
My favorite substack. <3
What a way to start my work day 😅🥵
datz hawt
She was my favorite poet once. She was a genius. But I lost my taste for her after the sexual assaults on her daughter were confirmed by audio tapes. I don't want her cancelled or anything, I just can't hear her the same way. Especially not this one.
It seems cruel that so much art is borne of trauma and abuse …
Your words made me consider the possibility that oftentimes art is born from the exhausting battle between our angels and our demons. Those with a piercing mind and a broken heart create to save what’s left pure out of them while those who manage to save both their souls and their minds oftentimes isolate themselves from the world and choose silence…
I don't know, perhaps you should trust her poems as they probably represent that part of herself, pure, that she managed to save 😉…. (Just out of curiosity, what’s wrong with this particular poem ?)
Nothing's wrong with poem, per se. I loved it once. It's just the celebration of sexuality now lands on me differently. I don't think that poetry represents the pure part of a writer. I think art often embraces shadow and light, and that's why it's not simply representation.
Sure, there are cases when art is corrupted by this battle and in some cases you might be right. For this particular poem though I would like to think that what was good in creator’s heart won
In my opinion, in many cases art is born in the fire of the battle between good and evil that grow within us and hence it is purified by this fire. It’s the pain emerging from the conflict and the tears that clean it
I hear you. I just don't think art is necessarily clean. I think it's everything. All the parts. Dark and light. Pain didn't make me pure or clean. It made me hurt and complex, and that's what I navigate and operate out of. So maybe it's just my perspective.
I took some time to think about what you said and maybe you are right after all. What I described above is how I envision the process of creating art. It’s more like an ideal scenario. I imagine the artistic process as being similar to peeling an onion. Along this process one removes layer after layer until he reaches at the essence of things and at the essence of his own heart. Assuming that all art is pure is assuming that humans are pure at their core and only their external layers are corroded by the environment, which is not true. That is where I was probably wrong. Humans are educated hunters, animals. At our core we aren’t necessarily good.
Returning to our initial conversation I would say that people tent to judge art globally as all or nothing when they should probably judge each manifestation of art separately because some of them might be a victory of evil in us but others might be an expression of good.
But that of course, is a strenuous thing to do…
I breaks my heart. I mean, not comparable to what actually happened to her daughter, but so disappointing. I want to call her up and say, "You ruined this!"
But perhaps this was never what you thought it was all along. Poetry is but a flash moment in time, as are all actions.
hunger mark
Erik, you need to supply digitalis to some of your readers who got long in the tooth and fragile in the heart :-)
Steamy...
echo that......swoon time...
I for one love the walking of a woman barefooted. It seems more graceful, giving to the movements of her legs a visual beauty that excites me.
Your poem is sexy in its takes due to the diction , and it makes for a very good reading. I enjoyed its verses and what they had to say.
Good read!
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.
Yes~
Woo, powerful!
The Good Queen Hole's Tale
The Good Queen Hole had a lovely, lusty soul,
So she called for Her Workmen Three:
The Cook, the Grounds Keeper, and gentle Manger Boy
Who arrived promptly with his Hat in his hand.
"I've known you all at different times," and Each
Turned to look at Each, "but I am Queen
Who has opulent Trio of Holes," (she points to Her
Self), "which" (and she touches Each twixt their legs)
"All want to be filled simultaneously." Hushed murmur
Of Thought passed among the men as They sideglanced
One to an Other. Could this be? Our Three Sabers drawn
Together? Good Queen Hole unsettled their Silence:
"Ah! Yes, the Riddle to be unraveled ere the Ride begins.
All or none will penetrate depending on your Wisdom's Wit."
The Cook stirred, took one step back; Keeper felt subtly
His Rod. Manger Boy blushed, his Hat covered that Part,
Wondered how He ever got here? "Then here 't is: Which
Of my Servants do I want in which Hole? Simple as 1, 2, 3."
The Queen reverses the Hourglass; Trio mused their Fate.
If They erred whould She chop off their Heads?
They shuttered and prayed, then united and decided.
Each'd sate well his true Queen's Hole. Like 3 big Hogs.
The Queen returned dressed in vermilion Kimono. Face
Painted like Paris putaine de Rue, sensual...oozing.
Dwarf with flexible 4-stemmed Hookah appeared. Opium
And Hash blended within. Lo and behold! 6 6-ounce claypots
Of 6 Single-malted Scotch...just to keep Everyone straight.
Good Queen Hole grinned: such Luck, Pluck & Lovely Drugs.
Dwarf reclaimed thrice Hookah Bowl. Claypots cracked oft
Rent asunder. "Then let the Games begin! Which of You must
Stop which Gap? Show me your Reason with your Staffs!" She
Laughed uproariously. Corpulent Cook began, unveiling his
Quivering utensil. "It is I Who please your Appetite, I beg
Swallow more my Sauce this Eve." Kneels by her Royal Mouth.
Next spoke the Lad, "I delight in cleaning Stalls as I feed
Your gallant Steeds hay. Neighhh! I'll come in Your South."
The Keepers Eyes were Embers. No Thought of Majesty has He.
Queen's Kimono sways as his Tongue swims Her Course.
Manger Boy grunted beneath them, forced further and further
Inside. After Good Queen Hole gushed, He planted his Tree.
Lastly She laughed, "I love and love more Lust and Drugs."
Then Her Soul screamed its Epiphany...Bliss...Rapture...
Haphazard and convulsing each Servant commenced to let go.
The Cook's Cock shot Cream all over the Queen.
Grounds Keeper kept on, Bull on a Fawn, grabbing the Boy
For leverage. Then in Queen's Furrow deposits his Seeds.
Her Highness begins to jolt as though Zeus sent his Bolt,
Lightning up her Loins. At last the Lad's Trumpet blasts,
Sending Queen's Body into Exultation. She felt greater
Than Holy Mary. "Yes! I too witness God's Truth." Dwarf
Hops on the Table, takes photos, proffers coffee and sweet
Berry Tartlets. Heads turn, Eyes gaze into Eyes: what next?
Good Queen Hole smears her Face with Cook's generous Sauce,
Licks her Fingers: "Sorry to say You All faulted my riddle.
So there's forfeit to be paid!" Their visages crack open.
"You've 2 more Chances my Men! Shall we get started again?"
WOW!!!
Yowza
Woo wee!