1) Anne Sexton & Sylvia Plath: poems come from the abyss, painfully, and a life obviously as scornful; literary (Sexton) could use some substance in her poetry other than nakedness, being free verse it allows more freedom to do this I believe. Her book, "The Book of Folly" seems to have been quickly written, and for her skill level, could have been done better; as her first two books (To Bedlam and All my Pretty Ones). Her friend, Sylvia Plath, whom they both went to classes with, both shared in the same style of confessional poetry, both suicidal in much of it. On the whole, Sylvia may be the better poet, but Sexton, whom perhaps pushed her family away to write poetry, did by all means, write and publish more of her poetry. In such cases I do believe, where mental illness is present, it is a way for the person to survive, it is too hard for them to live in the pot of crickets, and thus they find an escape.
2) Howard Nemerov: good lyricism, one of the poets I ran after in my early days in college to read and try to understand. He writes well, yet I find there is usually something missing, perhaps he (or poets like him) need to march to the end of the road (experience more, to fill the gaps in his poetry, when I say gaps, it is what I feel is missing between the lines, to him perhaps nothing, to me something, on the other hand, perhaps I expect too much).
3) Allen Ginsberg: when he was in his 20s, he wrote his best works (in particular "Empty Mirror" from there it was all down hill I do believe); he lost it to good taste, and good sense, which he had none of, and traded it for pleasure, and a warped mind, God help the reader. "Howl" and "Caddish" is some of his worse work, or I should say, is some of the worse poetry I've read to this day. He brings his reader into a circle that never ends. His book, and poems on Cambodia, comes from a fragmented mind, he shifts from where he starts out to be (Cambodia), and jumps off the road at ever comma, to get into some frenzy about something else, that means something to him perhaps, but the reader, it is far from where he originally taken the reader, and the reader expects him to finish what he started, but he never does. And most of his poetry involves his over obsession with homosexual dirty sex. He has to tell his public about it, he just can't overlook it; right up to his dying days.
4) E.E. Commings: Cummings poetry is Cummings! That is, more so than most poets; if you have read one of his poems, you’ve read most of them; a good and genuine poet indeed, perhaps uncompromising, but I get bored after a few of his poems, unfortunately.
5) Gary Snyder: Academic poetry, but in the middle (the beatniks era): he hugs Zen as so many did back then; I was at the end of that era. He used his techniques correctly, for who he is (or was): sharp, clear and detached poetry.
6) Walt Whitman: he was of course, Allen Ginsberg's hero, and perhaps because he shared the same sexual drives as he. I can see in Ginsberg's poetry, Whitman's style. Whitman perhaps was the father of modern free verse, and did it much better than Allen. The bad thing with Whitman was, he started out with a book for 12-poems, and ended up with a book of 400-poems, of which he spent a live time going over, and over, and over. When you got a good thing, leave it alone, who can go back 40-years and say: this is what I was thinking about then, and in consequence, change his book, "Leaves of Grass." If you read his poems, you got to read between the lines. When he talks of women often, he means men. You can see this by comparing old versions of his poems with newer ones. He is not a bad poet in my eyes, just a dirty old man.
7) William Blake: the mystery poet, and with a Macabre style. I like his poetry in general, not much to say about him, he came, he was, he always will be. I would call him a lighthearted Poe.
8) Robert Bly and Donald Hall, both good poets (I've met them both). Bly's best work is his first and second books "Silence in the Snowy Fields," and "The Light Around the Body." The only bad thing I can say about these books is, they got too long of a title. Yet I find starting in his second book, and never ending, is his quest for his political views to be heard, and it gets a tinge boring after fifty-years of reading it. His book "My Sentence was a Thousand Years of Joy," again a long title, but a good book to read none the less, and he delivers a more personal approach. Donald Hall on the other hand has short titles. His best book being (I feel) is "Without," a book written on grieving. His first book which I have signed by him also, “Exiles and Marriages (1955)" needs some of that older Donald Hall in it. He's written a dozen books or more, and I have not read them all, so I best stop here, whereas, I've read perhaps too much of Mr. Bly.
9) George Sterling: He was like Sexton and Plath in the since, he took his own life, he died in 1926, at the age of 58, Sexton in her late 40s, and Plath in her late 20s. Not many folks have heard of Sterling, but he was San Francisco's number one poet, and friends with Jack London. He perhaps is the best poet I read on imagery. Yet reading him, one can get lost. He gets so involved with his images, I think he gets lost, they are beautiful, strange but hard to hang on to. He wrote about 14-books, I think I have all of them but one. He was Clark A. Smith's teacher you might say, both Smith and he were from the "Weird Tales," period of writing, the 30s to the 50s, with Robert Howard.
10) Robert Jeffers and Tennessee Williams: Perhaps one of the best poetic prose writers of his day was Robert Jeffers, he was even acclaimed by George Sterling as a great poet, and rightfully. Perhaps even Mr. Sterling helped Jeffers in his imagery. I have several of his books, and one signed, so I am proud to have them, "Hungerfield and other Poems," is a good book, as well as his "Collected Poems." As for Tennessee Williams, one thinks he was just a play writer, but he was a poet, and wrote "In the Winter of Cities," a very good book indeed, I was surprised at the depth of his writing, but like Whitman, you must read between the lines, if you want to eliminate the pretense.
11) James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway: yes, they were both poets, or tried to be. Joyce was not only a bad writer in general, but not a very good poet also; had it not been for Ezra Pound, you would never have heard of James Joyce. As for Hemingway, his poetry was next to Allen Ginsberg’s, without dirty homosexual overtones. In core, his poetry was, depressing, more on the order of satirical disheartening poetry, with a touch of Plath and Sexton to it, but with less substance. But he was Hemingway, and could get away with garbage now and then.
Commentary on Poetry:
“Blessing of the Poem”:
There is nothing on earth that can equal the hard scraping profound labor and stirring of ones blood, and sense of sanctification that a good poem can offer (it is the highest quality of writing a writer can do).
That new promising poem, felt in the middle of silence, in the corner of the night, sticking to your mind and ribs until it finds its way out of your box and into the literature world; faint at first, then like the radiation of an atomic bomb.
The question asked: “Why indeed do people write poetry?”
A good question, and hard to answer, more subjective than otherwise, but let me give it a try, how I see it: imagines (dreams, seeing in your mind's eye, envisage), it is all under the same umbrella; such things come out of the unconscious, the mind, convicted, until written, then emancipated (and never to be lost in the vaults of humanity).
Note: Poets seem to have a once of vanity, if not several: for some it is hard to live in this world, and it is an escape. Many are highly intelligent, and skilled, some just have deep rooted emotions, and use poetry as a form of therapy, others like Ginsberg, simply need to feed their egos (he never said much unless there was a public view on him). It is all in the package though, you might say, it is all ok, as long as it is truthful and does not hurt the innocent, if you give it to the public that is, because it can influence minds, young minds, and we have a responsibility to write what will be useful, without pretense, otherwise, lock it up in the cellar and leave it there. I started writing poetry at 11-years old, I am 60-now. Funny, my first poem "Who" written in 1959, is more popular than most of all my writings and I've done 2300-poems, 350-short stories, 36-books, and 950-articles, I have two-million readers a year on over 400-sites, and this poem is on more sites than any other writings I have done to date. What does this say? It says to me, what everyone is looking for, what I just mentioned. And this one little poem stands out above them all, so simple.
2) Howard Nemerov: good lyricism, one of the poets I ran after in my early days in college to read and try to understand. He writes well, yet I find there is usually something missing, perhaps he (or poets like him) need to march to the end of the road (experience more, to fill the gaps in his poetry, when I say gaps, it is what I feel is missing between the lines, to him perhaps nothing, to me something, on the other hand, perhaps I expect too much).
3) Allen Ginsberg: when he was in his 20s, he wrote his best works (in particular "Empty Mirror" from there it was all down hill I do believe); he lost it to good taste, and good sense, which he had none of, and traded it for pleasure, and a warped mind, God help the reader. "Howl" and "Caddish" is some of his worse work, or I should say, is some of the worse poetry I've read to this day. He brings his reader into a circle that never ends. His book, and poems on Cambodia, comes from a fragmented mind, he shifts from where he starts out to be (Cambodia), and jumps off the road at ever comma, to get into some frenzy about something else, that means something to him perhaps, but the reader, it is far from where he originally taken the reader, and the reader expects him to finish what he started, but he never does. And most of his poetry involves his over obsession with homosexual dirty sex. He has to tell his public about it, he just can't overlook it; right up to his dying days.
4) E.E. Commings: Cummings poetry is Cummings! That is, more so than most poets; if you have read one of his poems, you’ve read most of them; a good and genuine poet indeed, perhaps uncompromising, but I get bored after a few of his poems, unfortunately.
5) Gary Snyder: Academic poetry, but in the middle (the beatniks era): he hugs Zen as so many did back then; I was at the end of that era. He used his techniques correctly, for who he is (or was): sharp, clear and detached poetry.
6) Walt Whitman: he was of course, Allen Ginsberg's hero, and perhaps because he shared the same sexual drives as he. I can see in Ginsberg's poetry, Whitman's style. Whitman perhaps was the father of modern free verse, and did it much better than Allen. The bad thing with Whitman was, he started out with a book for 12-poems, and ended up with a book of 400-poems, of which he spent a live time going over, and over, and over. When you got a good thing, leave it alone, who can go back 40-years and say: this is what I was thinking about then, and in consequence, change his book, "Leaves of Grass." If you read his poems, you got to read between the lines. When he talks of women often, he means men. You can see this by comparing old versions of his poems with newer ones. He is not a bad poet in my eyes, just a dirty old man.
7) William Blake: the mystery poet, and with a Macabre style. I like his poetry in general, not much to say about him, he came, he was, he always will be. I would call him a lighthearted Poe.
8) Robert Bly and Donald Hall, both good poets (I've met them both). Bly's best work is his first and second books "Silence in the Snowy Fields," and "The Light Around the Body." The only bad thing I can say about these books is, they got too long of a title. Yet I find starting in his second book, and never ending, is his quest for his political views to be heard, and it gets a tinge boring after fifty-years of reading it. His book "My Sentence was a Thousand Years of Joy," again a long title, but a good book to read none the less, and he delivers a more personal approach. Donald Hall on the other hand has short titles. His best book being (I feel) is "Without," a book written on grieving. His first book which I have signed by him also, “Exiles and Marriages (1955)" needs some of that older Donald Hall in it. He's written a dozen books or more, and I have not read them all, so I best stop here, whereas, I've read perhaps too much of Mr. Bly.
9) George Sterling: He was like Sexton and Plath in the since, he took his own life, he died in 1926, at the age of 58, Sexton in her late 40s, and Plath in her late 20s. Not many folks have heard of Sterling, but he was San Francisco's number one poet, and friends with Jack London. He perhaps is the best poet I read on imagery. Yet reading him, one can get lost. He gets so involved with his images, I think he gets lost, they are beautiful, strange but hard to hang on to. He wrote about 14-books, I think I have all of them but one. He was Clark A. Smith's teacher you might say, both Smith and he were from the "Weird Tales," period of writing, the 30s to the 50s, with Robert Howard.
10) Robert Jeffers and Tennessee Williams: Perhaps one of the best poetic prose writers of his day was Robert Jeffers, he was even acclaimed by George Sterling as a great poet, and rightfully. Perhaps even Mr. Sterling helped Jeffers in his imagery. I have several of his books, and one signed, so I am proud to have them, "Hungerfield and other Poems," is a good book, as well as his "Collected Poems." As for Tennessee Williams, one thinks he was just a play writer, but he was a poet, and wrote "In the Winter of Cities," a very good book indeed, I was surprised at the depth of his writing, but like Whitman, you must read between the lines, if you want to eliminate the pretense.
11) James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway: yes, they were both poets, or tried to be. Joyce was not only a bad writer in general, but not a very good poet also; had it not been for Ezra Pound, you would never have heard of James Joyce. As for Hemingway, his poetry was next to Allen Ginsberg’s, without dirty homosexual overtones. In core, his poetry was, depressing, more on the order of satirical disheartening poetry, with a touch of Plath and Sexton to it, but with less substance. But he was Hemingway, and could get away with garbage now and then.
Commentary on Poetry:
“Blessing of the Poem”:
There is nothing on earth that can equal the hard scraping profound labor and stirring of ones blood, and sense of sanctification that a good poem can offer (it is the highest quality of writing a writer can do).
That new promising poem, felt in the middle of silence, in the corner of the night, sticking to your mind and ribs until it finds its way out of your box and into the literature world; faint at first, then like the radiation of an atomic bomb.
The question asked: “Why indeed do people write poetry?”
A good question, and hard to answer, more subjective than otherwise, but let me give it a try, how I see it: imagines (dreams, seeing in your mind's eye, envisage), it is all under the same umbrella; such things come out of the unconscious, the mind, convicted, until written, then emancipated (and never to be lost in the vaults of humanity).
Note: Poets seem to have a once of vanity, if not several: for some it is hard to live in this world, and it is an escape. Many are highly intelligent, and skilled, some just have deep rooted emotions, and use poetry as a form of therapy, others like Ginsberg, simply need to feed their egos (he never said much unless there was a public view on him). It is all in the package though, you might say, it is all ok, as long as it is truthful and does not hurt the innocent, if you give it to the public that is, because it can influence minds, young minds, and we have a responsibility to write what will be useful, without pretense, otherwise, lock it up in the cellar and leave it there. I started writing poetry at 11-years old, I am 60-now. Funny, my first poem "Who" written in 1959, is more popular than most of all my writings and I've done 2300-poems, 350-short stories, 36-books, and 950-articles, I have two-million readers a year on over 400-sites, and this poem is on more sites than any other writings I have done to date. What does this say? It says to me, what everyone is looking for, what I just mentioned. And this one little poem stands out above them all, so simple.
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