Wow. What a complicated or, better, complex poem. At the beginning:
Do not look sadly at days gone by
days below days like a river running under the stars
Do not listen to the blues
or speak often with priests
Do not think the rich women enrolled in the college of nightfall
will always smell the same way
Everytime the tree works the leaves dream
Powerful reminders of impermanence and that this life is as real as a dream.
Sometimes, we say stop holding onto things but the truth is that there is nothing to hold onto in the first place. It is all fleeting. We might even say illusory at times.
Best to be momentarily aware that the river never stops running underneath the stars, but only momentarily. You cannot hold onto that, either.
I read this as if it is an overheard conversation in a common area at an asylum. It helps to explain the different rhythms and anaphors.
There is the authoritative madman, spouting direct instructions. "Do not look sadly at days gone by"
There is the despondent madman, seemingly justifying his death by promising himself forms of immortality. "everytime I cut my name / in the old wood rotten as a tugboat / I know I am always with you."
There is the madman playing the role of a Greek chorus. "Poets have done this before"
And finally there is that last explosion of madness at the end, where Stanford drops all rhythm and goes on an absolutely beautiful rant that would have fit perfectly at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in the 70s. "The poet forgets in remembrance of you / he is the lunatic’s left hand man / on Sundays the acolyte of the moon / he is night following other nights / the eyes of the blind / the stranger your wife leaves with / when you’re still talking with your youth / stowed away on the ship of death / and it will not smell the same"
Frank Stanford’s poem sees life, shoots the breeze , finds the hole and with a knife cuts a slice of pie in the sky to show us how . But to some , no matter what is done in life experiences ; something else gets in the way. And you choose a different path to show how it could be, as it still smells the same. In this case, a fragrant rose in a garden of poetry that deserves to be celebrated.
Struggled to connect honestly. Seems like he was really going for something special but falling short with a lot of confused lines thrown out for readers to make sense of. Or maybe I’m just too thick for it. Anyway it’s true that it doesn’t always smell the same.
You mean like Lautréamont, Trakl, Gilbert-Lecomte, Pizarnik? Very much to my taste, and not "academic", at all. But they are *poets*, which differentiates them from the drivel that you posted.
Wow. What a complicated or, better, complex poem. At the beginning:
Do not look sadly at days gone by
days below days like a river running under the stars
Do not listen to the blues
or speak often with priests
Do not think the rich women enrolled in the college of nightfall
will always smell the same way
Everytime the tree works the leaves dream
Powerful reminders of impermanence and that this life is as real as a dream.
Sometimes, we say stop holding onto things but the truth is that there is nothing to hold onto in the first place. It is all fleeting. We might even say illusory at times.
Best to be momentarily aware that the river never stops running underneath the stars, but only momentarily. You cannot hold onto that, either.
Thank you for the poem.
thanks for the introduction /
and seduction / great stuff /
a copy of the collected poems of
Frank Stanford arrives on the
midnight train tomorrow.
I read this as if it is an overheard conversation in a common area at an asylum. It helps to explain the different rhythms and anaphors.
There is the authoritative madman, spouting direct instructions. "Do not look sadly at days gone by"
There is the despondent madman, seemingly justifying his death by promising himself forms of immortality. "everytime I cut my name / in the old wood rotten as a tugboat / I know I am always with you."
There is the madman playing the role of a Greek chorus. "Poets have done this before"
And finally there is that last explosion of madness at the end, where Stanford drops all rhythm and goes on an absolutely beautiful rant that would have fit perfectly at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in the 70s. "The poet forgets in remembrance of you / he is the lunatic’s left hand man / on Sundays the acolyte of the moon / he is night following other nights / the eyes of the blind / the stranger your wife leaves with / when you’re still talking with your youth / stowed away on the ship of death / and it will not smell the same"
Amazing piece.
Another suicide. I only read about half of this depressing poem. I printed it out, took it outside and burned it.
every poet offered here takes me into a world i would have never known had it not been for you. thank you so much for the adventures.
Frank Stanford’s poem sees life, shoots the breeze , finds the hole and with a knife cuts a slice of pie in the sky to show us how . But to some , no matter what is done in life experiences ; something else gets in the way. And you choose a different path to show how it could be, as it still smells the same. In this case, a fragrant rose in a garden of poetry that deserves to be celebrated.
Struggled to connect honestly. Seems like he was really going for something special but falling short with a lot of confused lines thrown out for readers to make sense of. Or maybe I’m just too thick for it. Anyway it’s true that it doesn’t always smell the same.
I’m with you.
Wow! I read this & heard in my head Jim Morrison’s voice reciting it as the Doors played. A stunner!
Read it a few times. Still looking for the poetry, or what it is that makes this disjunctive prose patchwork a "poem". My view is, nothing whatsoever.
Stick to the academic poets. They seem to be more your taste.
You mean like Lautréamont, Trakl, Gilbert-Lecomte, Pizarnik? Very much to my taste, and not "academic", at all. But they are *poets*, which differentiates them from the drivel that you posted.
Keep posting outlaw work—We already know where the mainstream is.
Stunning poem best drunken with dirt and wine
What a fabulous poem! So deep, so resonant, so sad….
What a strong and amazingly sad prayerful poem.
"Poets have done this before
and they’ve wandered off alone and unheard of
to bury the caul of their own stillborn..."
God that’s good
wow? yes, wow!
Nothing to say to all this but yes! Thanks kid!
Wow! For some reason makes me think of Tom o' Bedlam's Song, which i have not thought of for many years.