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Are you a Winning Writer? Although the site is largely geared toward entering writing contests, there's quite a bit of po ems and short stories that have won various contests. You can also have your poetry critiqued or visit one of the websites for poets and writers. Some services, such as the poetry critique, are only available if you subscribe to their free newsletter.
digaman, the first two lines of your poem have the same structure and rhyme scheme and as the first two lines in Radiohead's "Optimistic":
Flies are buzzing round my head
Vultures circling the dead
Is that weird?
posted by Milkman Dan at 10:55 AM on August 15, 2006
Flies are buzzing round my head
Vultures circling the dead
Is that weird?
posted by Milkman Dan at 10:55 AM on August 15, 2006
Heh, I was probably using some very standard metrical scheme that I picked up from pop songs, textbook poems, or Hallmark cards.
I do love Radiohead though.
posted by digaman at 11:14 AM on August 15, 2006
I do love Radiohead though.
posted by digaman at 11:14 AM on August 15, 2006
Despite Fordham U's uncanny prediction of my own astonishing success [wink, wink], I'm not sure that sites like this are of much help to young writers -- though I'd like to hear from young writers who disagree. People who judge "poetry contests" are rarely A-list, top-shelf practicing poets -- in fact, if they're academics at all, you're lucky -- and the promise of prize money bla bla bla -- seems like the most specious possible motivation to write a good poem. Since all the links in the FPP go to that one site... well, I dunno. Teenage writers often tell me they're entering online poetry contests, and well, who cares. It's not like poetry publishers are poring over the contest results to pick out the next Wallace Stevens or Ezra Pound.
posted by digaman at 11:29 AM on August 15, 2006
posted by digaman at 11:29 AM on August 15, 2006
In other words (sorry to bloviate at such length here), if you're a young writer and you want feedback, I think you'd be better off hunting down writers who you consider masters of the art, and then asking them very gently if they'd be willing to look over your stuff.
I did that as I got older, and that's what made me a writer.
posted by digaman at 11:32 AM on August 15, 2006
I did that as I got older, and that's what made me a writer.
posted by digaman at 11:32 AM on August 15, 2006
Case in point -- this was the first-prize winner of that site's "war poetry" contest?
When the hawk slaked down into the garden and entered
the chittering bud of linnets and sparrows
feeding on the bread crumbs and stale cereal, you
were telling me the story
of how you took it upon yourself to bury, as you would
in the weeks to come most of your own platoon, the young
German—the first man you ever killed—
shot on the concrete forecourt of a textile factory
in Belgium. At close range. With a single bullet.
I need to believe you spent the war
safe from yourself, in reserve, your rifle clean
and unfired; that you woke each morning
alone and hard in your own hand. But the tautness
of his skin dropped away like a sail losing the wind and the wet
purse of his mouth went slack and eased open
to reveal its neat, stained wreaths of change.
After the first death there were many others and they all
rose up through this one. Out in the garden the hawk
rowed up from the earth with its burden, leaving
a panic the colour of ashes and bone. A slim warmth...
I mean, I don't want to belabor Mr./Ms. Nutter's flight of fancy with a close reading, but let's face it: unless the author of this poem is under 25 or so, it's not a very good poem. It's not 100% talent-free, but the vocabulary is way overwrought. "Slaked" is a very awkward word to use to describe the down-slanting flight of a hawk. "Bud" is equally awkward to mean "grouping of," and whatever concrete value the noun has is blurred by the addition of "chittering." "Forecourt" is a very jarring, fussy, architecturally-specific term to use in the midst of describing a killing, and the phallic/gun imagery of waking "hard" is so grossly obvious and clicheed it's nearly stomach-churning. And panic has a color? Maybe in some poem, but not in this one. Sorry Mr./Ms. Nutter, but this reads like a bunch of New Yorker poems run through some sort of randomizing cliche generator.
If this is the top of the heap, I'd hate to see the rest.
posted by digaman at 11:57 AM on August 15, 2006
When the hawk slaked down into the garden and entered
the chittering bud of linnets and sparrows
feeding on the bread crumbs and stale cereal, you
were telling me the story
of how you took it upon yourself to bury, as you would
in the weeks to come most of your own platoon, the young
German—the first man you ever killed—
shot on the concrete forecourt of a textile factory
in Belgium. At close range. With a single bullet.
I need to believe you spent the war
safe from yourself, in reserve, your rifle clean
and unfired; that you woke each morning
alone and hard in your own hand. But the tautness
of his skin dropped away like a sail losing the wind and the wet
purse of his mouth went slack and eased open
to reveal its neat, stained wreaths of change.
After the first death there were many others and they all
rose up through this one. Out in the garden the hawk
rowed up from the earth with its burden, leaving
a panic the colour of ashes and bone. A slim warmth...
I mean, I don't want to belabor Mr./Ms. Nutter's flight of fancy with a close reading, but let's face it: unless the author of this poem is under 25 or so, it's not a very good poem. It's not 100% talent-free, but the vocabulary is way overwrought. "Slaked" is a very awkward word to use to describe the down-slanting flight of a hawk. "Bud" is equally awkward to mean "grouping of," and whatever concrete value the noun has is blurred by the addition of "chittering." "Forecourt" is a very jarring, fussy, architecturally-specific term to use in the midst of describing a killing, and the phallic/gun imagery of waking "hard" is so grossly obvious and clicheed it's nearly stomach-churning. And panic has a color? Maybe in some poem, but not in this one. Sorry Mr./Ms. Nutter, but this reads like a bunch of New Yorker poems run through some sort of randomizing cliche generator.
If this is the top of the heap, I'd hate to see the rest.
posted by digaman at 11:57 AM on August 15, 2006
All this shit is torturing poetry to death.
Want to become a better poet? Learn prosody. Read the masterworks. Spend the rest of your life trying to outdo them.
posted by theinsectsarewaiting at 12:24 PM on August 15, 2006
Want to become a better poet? Learn prosody. Read the masterworks. Spend the rest of your life trying to outdo them.
posted by theinsectsarewaiting at 12:24 PM on August 15, 2006
I'd be skinny.
No, you'd just be a middle-aged guy with messed up knees. (Not that I really thought you meant it.)
Hey, no offense, man, but [insert calculated total here] is middle-aged. Like Alan King used to say, "I'm sixty, I'm not going to live to be 120. I'm an old man."
posted by lodurr at 12:39 PM on August 15, 2006
No, you'd just be a middle-aged guy with messed up knees. (Not that I really thought you meant it.)
Hey, no offense, man, but [insert calculated total here] is middle-aged. Like Alan King used to say, "I'm sixty, I'm not going to live to be 120. I'm an old man."
posted by lodurr at 12:39 PM on August 15, 2006
Digaman: Not that you don't make a valid points here, but imo your dissection of it is as pretentious as the poem.
posted by applemeat at 12:48 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by applemeat at 12:48 PM on August 15, 2006
Honestly, I think digaman is going way too easy on that poem. The piece seems to have been written by someone who was patted on the head every time s/he used an unusual term. And that "I needed you to be x" bit is just so tired that I feel nauseous from sympathetic embarrassment every time I read it in a poem. "I needed you to be [sympathetic / a virgin / strong / a bagel]."
posted by lodurr at 12:52 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by lodurr at 12:52 PM on August 15, 2006
if you're a young writer and you want feedback, I think you'd be better off hunting down writers who you consider masters of the art, and then asking them very gently if they'd be willing to look over your stuff.
What's the best way to ask a writer? The least intrusive, most polite way? I'm no longer young, but I do hold unbridled optimistic hopes of getting this piece I'm working on published. Perhaps I should start an AskMe on this.
Anyhoo, if you have any quick tips on how to approach the author you would like as a sorta-mentor, I'm all ears.
posted by eurasian at 12:59 PM on August 15, 2006
What's the best way to ask a writer? The least intrusive, most polite way? I'm no longer young, but I do hold unbridled optimistic hopes of getting this piece I'm working on published. Perhaps I should start an AskMe on this.
Anyhoo, if you have any quick tips on how to approach the author you would like as a sorta-mentor, I'm all ears.
posted by eurasian at 12:59 PM on August 15, 2006
applemeat, point taken, but close readings of a poem are always going to look pretentious in a venue like MeFi. Imagine what musical criticism of a sonata would look like in this context. I stand behind everything I said about the poem, though I could have been a little less snarky.
Eurasian -- When I first moved to SF, I went to a lot of local readings. With a little digging, I found out that three excellent, widely-published poets -- the late Thom Gunn, August Kleinzahler, and Aaron Shurin -- all lived in this neighborhood. I found Shurin's number by calling information and offered him a modest amount of money (I was a poor waiter/student) to look over my poems weekly and give me a non-traditional education in poetry: Pound, Williams, Robert Duncan, Denise Levertov, and so on. We met weekly for almost a year. It was crucial for my development at a writer.
I introduced myself to Kleinzahler at a poetry workshop, and he ended up giving me wonderful suggestions for reading. I eventually signed up to take graduate classes at Berkeley so I could study with Thom Gunn, and talked to him in the neighborhood. All three guys were very generous with me -- and very critical, in the best way.
In the digital age, it's even easier to track people down. The most important thing is first finding someone whose work you deeply respect. Then email them (many poets have .edu addresses these days, which are easy to uncover), tell them who you are, include your age and your areas of interest in reading and writing, and ask them politely -- no pressure! -- if they're willing to give you feedback. Then send them a modest selection of your work, and listen really hard to what they tell you. They may be wrong, but they won't be wrong all the time.
I tell young writers all the time: this is a much better way to learn how get better than blind-submitting poems to poetry magazines... or entering poetry contests.
There's also the whole slam thing. Some club in your town probably hosts them, and even if the poems of the page don't work so well, you'll probably meet other earnest young writers at these events, and at other local readings.
Best of luck!
posted by digaman at 1:21 PM on August 15, 2006 [2 favorites]
Eurasian -- When I first moved to SF, I went to a lot of local readings. With a little digging, I found out that three excellent, widely-published poets -- the late Thom Gunn, August Kleinzahler, and Aaron Shurin -- all lived in this neighborhood. I found Shurin's number by calling information and offered him a modest amount of money (I was a poor waiter/student) to look over my poems weekly and give me a non-traditional education in poetry: Pound, Williams, Robert Duncan, Denise Levertov, and so on. We met weekly for almost a year. It was crucial for my development at a writer.
I introduced myself to Kleinzahler at a poetry workshop, and he ended up giving me wonderful suggestions for reading. I eventually signed up to take graduate classes at Berkeley so I could study with Thom Gunn, and talked to him in the neighborhood. All three guys were very generous with me -- and very critical, in the best way.
In the digital age, it's even easier to track people down. The most important thing is first finding someone whose work you deeply respect. Then email them (many poets have .edu addresses these days, which are easy to uncover), tell them who you are, include your age and your areas of interest in reading and writing, and ask them politely -- no pressure! -- if they're willing to give you feedback. Then send them a modest selection of your work, and listen really hard to what they tell you. They may be wrong, but they won't be wrong all the time.
I tell young writers all the time: this is a much better way to learn how get better than blind-submitting poems to poetry magazines... or entering poetry contests.
There's also the whole slam thing. Some club in your town probably hosts them, and even if the poems of the page don't work so well, you'll probably meet other earnest young writers at these events, and at other local readings.
Best of luck!
posted by digaman at 1:21 PM on August 15, 2006 [2 favorites]
Thanks for the link, owhydididoit (and I love your handle, by the way). I sent them an E-mail about my site, figuring it would be of interest to their readership.
posted by Faint of Butt at 1:45 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by Faint of Butt at 1:45 PM on August 15, 2006
Some club in your town probably hosts them, and even if the poems of the page don't work so well
Sorry, sloppy typing. I should have said, "even if the poems don't work so well on the page..."
posted by digaman at 2:37 PM on August 15, 2006
Sorry, sloppy typing. I should have said, "even if the poems don't work so well on the page..."
posted by digaman at 2:37 PM on August 15, 2006
One person's "overwrought" vocabulary is another person's "precise" vocabulary, digaman. If "forecourt" is a precise architechtural descriptor, then how could it be said to be too "fussy"? Isn't it merely accurate? I thought, for instance, that "slaked" was one of the few interesting word choices in the poem--to draw parallels between a bird's arrival in a garden and a physical need such as thirst being met is original, even if the vocabulary is not to your liking. And to say "panic doesn't actually have a color" is a remarkably short-sighted criticism; if poets are not allowed to assign synesthetic adjectives to nouns, then poetry is a much more limited art than I was taught to believe.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 3:13 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 3:13 PM on August 15, 2006
PRB -- When judging a poem, the pertinent questions are, "Are the linguistic effects you're creating aiding or inhibiting the impact of the poem as a whole? Is each part of the poem working with every other part to focus the collective force of the poem?"
Poems do not settle for "mere accuracy" -- they aim for something much higher: transcendent accuracy.
to draw parallels between a bird's arrival in a garden and a physical need such as thirst being met is original, even if the vocabulary is not to your liking
Oh sure, that would be an interesting idea. Now let's look at the poem:
When the hawk slaked down into the garden and entered
the chittering bud of linnets and sparrows
Hm. I don't get a very effective execution of that idea from the simple substitution of a word that makes the reader think, "But wait, I thought 'slaked' meant 'satisfying thirst'? OK, so, the poet is trying to tell me that the hawk is thirsty, and flies down into this garden to -- ah -- slake his thirst." But then immediately the hawk is "entering" a "bud" -- not a very elegant construction either. Is the hawk's thirst slaked once he enters the bud? Then this whole set-up turns out to be atmosphere anyway, describing the occasion of writing the poem -- and in words that are not particularly concrete or sensory. By the time I get to a run-on of mixed metaphors like this...
But the tautness
of his skin dropped away like a sail losing the wind and the wet
purse of his mouth went slack and eased open
to reveal its neat, stained wreaths of change
...are we talking about sails, purses, or wreaths? Each one of them comes with a particular set of associations and textures in the reader's mind, and jumbling them all together does not contribute to clarity.
posted by digaman at 4:02 PM on August 15, 2006
Poems do not settle for "mere accuracy" -- they aim for something much higher: transcendent accuracy.
to draw parallels between a bird's arrival in a garden and a physical need such as thirst being met is original, even if the vocabulary is not to your liking
Oh sure, that would be an interesting idea. Now let's look at the poem:
When the hawk slaked down into the garden and entered
the chittering bud of linnets and sparrows
Hm. I don't get a very effective execution of that idea from the simple substitution of a word that makes the reader think, "But wait, I thought 'slaked' meant 'satisfying thirst'? OK, so, the poet is trying to tell me that the hawk is thirsty, and flies down into this garden to -- ah -- slake his thirst." But then immediately the hawk is "entering" a "bud" -- not a very elegant construction either. Is the hawk's thirst slaked once he enters the bud? Then this whole set-up turns out to be atmosphere anyway, describing the occasion of writing the poem -- and in words that are not particularly concrete or sensory. By the time I get to a run-on of mixed metaphors like this...
But the tautness
of his skin dropped away like a sail losing the wind and the wet
purse of his mouth went slack and eased open
to reveal its neat, stained wreaths of change
...are we talking about sails, purses, or wreaths? Each one of them comes with a particular set of associations and textures in the reader's mind, and jumbling them all together does not contribute to clarity.
posted by digaman at 4:02 PM on August 15, 2006
Ezra Pound says this all much better than I could here.
To wit:
"Use no superfluous word, no adjective which does not reveal something.
Don’t use such an expression as 'dim lands of peace.' It dulls the image. It mixes an abstraction with the concrete. It comes from the writer's not realizing that the natural object is always the adequate symbol."
What do you think Pound would have thought of the phrase "neat, stained wreaths of change"?
posted by digaman at 4:06 PM on August 15, 2006
To wit:
"Use no superfluous word, no adjective which does not reveal something.
Don’t use such an expression as 'dim lands of peace.' It dulls the image. It mixes an abstraction with the concrete. It comes from the writer's not realizing that the natural object is always the adequate symbol."
What do you think Pound would have thought of the phrase "neat, stained wreaths of change"?
posted by digaman at 4:06 PM on August 15, 2006
That it was ripping off "petals on a wet, black bough?"
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 4:49 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 4:49 PM on August 15, 2006
Sorry, I hit post too soon, so my last comment sounded like that of the snidest ho. To address your earlier comment, I think you have misread my reading of the first line.
I don't get a very effective execution of that idea from the simple substitution of a word that makes the reader think, "But wait, I thought 'slaked' meant 'satisfying thirst'? OK, so, the poet is trying to tell me that the hawk is thirsty, and flies down into this garden to -- ah -- slake his thirst."
That's not exactly what I was saying. I said that the poet drew a direct comparison between the arrival of a bird in a garden and the slaking of thirst--meaning, the author's metaphor was that the bird slaked the thirst of the garden. Which is interesting, and which is apparent from a simple word substitution. At least, I thought so. And by that logic, the image of the bird "entering" the bud is not inconsistent at all--if the bird is slaking the garden, then the bird is entering the bud as water would do. Not to argue the finer points of semantics on Metafilter or anything--the universe would surely burst into flames!
I'm not saying this is an excellent poem. I'm saying this is a representative and competent example of a certain kind of poetry, a kind that I do not particularly like or find particularly moving. If this poem is bad, it's because most poetry like this is bad, and not because it is an egregiously poor example of its kind.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 5:05 PM on August 15, 2006
I don't get a very effective execution of that idea from the simple substitution of a word that makes the reader think, "But wait, I thought 'slaked' meant 'satisfying thirst'? OK, so, the poet is trying to tell me that the hawk is thirsty, and flies down into this garden to -- ah -- slake his thirst."
That's not exactly what I was saying. I said that the poet drew a direct comparison between the arrival of a bird in a garden and the slaking of thirst--meaning, the author's metaphor was that the bird slaked the thirst of the garden. Which is interesting, and which is apparent from a simple word substitution. At least, I thought so. And by that logic, the image of the bird "entering" the bud is not inconsistent at all--if the bird is slaking the garden, then the bird is entering the bud as water would do. Not to argue the finer points of semantics on Metafilter or anything--the universe would surely burst into flames!
I'm not saying this is an excellent poem. I'm saying this is a representative and competent example of a certain kind of poetry, a kind that I do not particularly like or find particularly moving. If this poem is bad, it's because most poetry like this is bad, and not because it is an egregiously poor example of its kind.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 5:05 PM on August 15, 2006
Forget the poetry; the short stories aren't that well-crafted (or good at all) either.
posted by kyleg at 5:12 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by kyleg at 5:12 PM on August 15, 2006
Wow. Not so much, eh?
posted by owhydididoit at 7:26 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by owhydididoit at 7:26 PM on August 15, 2006
I liked it, but then I have no clue what Pound would think. I've never published, despite having studied fiction writing at Evergreen. I do write for a living, but it's not strictly fiction: end user documentation.
I might enter one of these contests, if for no other reason than to yoke the muse.
posted by owhydididoit at 7:41 PM on August 15, 2006
I might enter one of these contests, if for no other reason than to yoke the muse.
posted by owhydididoit at 7:41 PM on August 15, 2006
and I thought the site was well-designed
posted by owhydididoit at 7:43 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by owhydididoit at 7:43 PM on August 15, 2006
As my mind-lasers willed you to do, digaman. Holy Christ those things are powerful--much like the religious baby who gave me my name.
I should mention that I, too, carried off the laurels in a fifth-grade poetry contest. My entry was an anaphoric poem--I am not even shitting you--based on the rollicking Civil War children's classic Across Five Aprils.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 8:39 PM on August 15, 2006
I should mention that I, too, carried off the laurels in a fifth-grade poetry contest. My entry was an anaphoric poem--I am not even shitting you--based on the rollicking Civil War children's classic Across Five Aprils.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 8:39 PM on August 15, 2006
Metafilter: Yoking the muse.
posted by melixxa600 at 9:13 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by melixxa600 at 9:13 PM on August 15, 2006
My entry was an anaphoric poem--I am not even shitting you--based on the rollicking Civil War children's classic Across Five Aprils.
Dude, I posted my absurd juvenilia ^.
Kizick down.
posted by digaman at 9:45 PM on August 15, 2006
Dude, I posted my absurd juvenilia ^.
Kizick down.
posted by digaman at 9:45 PM on August 15, 2006
Digaman: Thanks! And neat personal history there about treading the unbeaten path.
posted by eurasian at 10:24 PM on August 15, 2006
posted by eurasian at 10:24 PM on August 15, 2006
Sadly, that poem has been consigned to the rubbish bin of history. I'll tell you one thing, though: every line began with the word "across." Because as a fifth grader I was a blazing god of originality surrounded by a nimbus of innovation.
Could I console you by reciting "An Ode to Hitler's Guardian Angel," composed in my fifteenth year? Here it fucking goes:
An Ode to Hitler's Guardian Angel
The angel appeared to Hitler
in a dream, to warn him,
to tell him to stop
what he was doing,
that it was madness.
But when Hitler woke,
all he remembered
was the blonde hair,
and the blue eyes,
and he smiled,
secure in the knowledge
that he was doing the right thing.
I know. I know. Hey, don't say I never did anything for you.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 10:35 PM on August 15, 2006
Could I console you by reciting "An Ode to Hitler's Guardian Angel," composed in my fifteenth year? Here it fucking goes:
An Ode to Hitler's Guardian Angel
The angel appeared to Hitler
in a dream, to warn him,
to tell him to stop
what he was doing,
that it was madness.
But when Hitler woke,
all he remembered
was the blonde hair,
and the blue eyes,
and he smiled,
secure in the knowledge
that he was doing the right thing.
I know. I know. Hey, don't say I never did anything for you.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 10:35 PM on August 15, 2006
Hey, PRB, that actually has somethin' goin' on. I enjoyed it, and it's better than the usual suburban teen angst. It sees through its scenario to a satisfying conclusion.
Metafilter: It sees through its scenario to a satisfying conclusion.
Thanks for posting it, and thanks, Eurasian.
posted by digaman at 10:44 PM on August 15, 2006
Metafilter: It sees through its scenario to a satisfying conclusion.
Thanks for posting it, and thanks, Eurasian.
posted by digaman at 10:44 PM on August 15, 2006
I thank you for your kind words, digaman--however, I still maintain that the devils of pretension will poke me in hell over that one.
Metafilter: An Ode to Hitler's Guardian Angel.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 10:51 PM on August 15, 2006
Metafilter: An Ode to Hitler's Guardian Angel.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 10:51 PM on August 15, 2006
So, PRB, curious: Why do you think it's pretentious? Not a word I'd use to describe it. Amusing, depressing, but not pretentious. (Which is to say, I liked it. A lot better than I was writing at 15. No, I will not share.)
posted by lodurr at 4:33 AM on August 16, 2006
posted by lodurr at 4:33 AM on August 16, 2006
and I thought the site was well-designed
It is, ohwhy.
posted by digaman at 8:09 AM on August 16, 2006
It is, ohwhy.
posted by digaman at 8:09 AM on August 16, 2006
That's a good question, lodurr. The word I want is probably embarrassing, rather than pretentious--because it's juvenilia, and juvenilia is pretty much embarrassing by definition. Also, I think it makes me nervous that I was so comfortable taking on the big topics as a teenager--Hitler, angels--whereas I would be much more cautious about doing so now.*
*Holy crap, what a lie...my current project is totally an epic poem about Jesus.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 10:54 AM on August 16, 2006
*Holy crap, what a lie...my current project is totally an epic poem about Jesus.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 10:54 AM on August 16, 2006
OK, fine, so you're embarrassed by it. It's still pretty good. So there.
posted by lodurr at 11:04 AM on August 16, 2006
posted by lodurr at 11:04 AM on August 16, 2006
Eurasian, to avoid telling oft-told tales, I somehow left out the biggest turning-point in my youthful career of finding writing mentors. When I was 18, I went to see Allen Ginsberg read in NYC. To make a very long story short, I basically fell in love with his mind from afar and made a vow to be wherever he was going to be the following summer, to help out with laundry or groceries or whatever the poet needed done.
As it happened, the following summer Ginsberg was teaching at Naropa. I sold everything I had, got on a train, and went to Boulder, where I became one of Ginsberg's apprentices and took courses with William Burroughs, Gregory Corso, Anne Waldman, and other Beat and post-Beat luminaries. Ginsberg and I stayed in touch over the years, and in the summer of 1987, I was his teaching assistant at Naropa. As I got older and developed my own distinct writing voice, I became a friend to Ginsberg rather than a starstruck fan. The whole Naropa trip turned out to be a gateway into a universe of reading, thinking, and contemplation that I am still living in.
posted by digaman at 11:07 AM on August 16, 2006
As it happened, the following summer Ginsberg was teaching at Naropa. I sold everything I had, got on a train, and went to Boulder, where I became one of Ginsberg's apprentices and took courses with William Burroughs, Gregory Corso, Anne Waldman, and other Beat and post-Beat luminaries. Ginsberg and I stayed in touch over the years, and in the summer of 1987, I was his teaching assistant at Naropa. As I got older and developed my own distinct writing voice, I became a friend to Ginsberg rather than a starstruck fan. The whole Naropa trip turned out to be a gateway into a universe of reading, thinking, and contemplation that I am still living in.
posted by digaman at 11:07 AM on August 16, 2006
How did this post get Godwined?
posted by owhydididoit at 11:11 AM on August 16, 2006
posted by owhydididoit at 11:11 AM on August 16, 2006
That blows the roof off my mind, digaman, and sticks a little sweep in its chimney as well. What a great story.
lodurr--point taken, and thank you. Also, you know who else said nice things about my early poems? Hitler.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 11:30 AM on August 16, 2006
lodurr--point taken, and thank you. Also, you know who else said nice things about my early poems? Hitler.
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 11:30 AM on August 16, 2006
Adolf Hitler? He should maybe call himself Adolf Witler, am I right?? Stay crazy, A.!
--Billy Bush, Access Hollywood
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 12:12 PM on August 16, 2006
--Billy Bush, Access Hollywood
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 12:12 PM on August 16, 2006
metafilter posts
a landscape Hitler invades
a way to cheat death
posted by owhydididoit at 12:53 PM on August 16, 2006
a landscape Hitler invades
a way to cheat death
posted by owhydididoit at 12:53 PM on August 16, 2006
Hitler reappears
like warts on the mind-wang...
chancre didn't fit
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 1:14 PM on August 16, 2006
like warts on the mind-wang...
chancre didn't fit
posted by Powerful Religious Baby at 1:14 PM on August 16, 2006
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Cubes are swirling through my head,
π's attack me in my bed.
I dream of numbers in my sleep -
How much to carry? How much to keep?
Circles everywhere, radii too,
in my brain, a number zoo!
There's some numbers, here comes more,
fight me in a daily war.
-- me, 5th grade, winner of the Fordham University young people's poetry contest in NYC, 1967.
And now I'm a big-time (ha!) writer. My fate was sealed by entering that goddamned contest. I should have gone out for basketball -- I'd be skinny.
posted by digaman at 10:46 AM on August 15, 2006