three recent poems

1. i want to write a poem less contrived than my emotions

2. i wish my intellect could convince my guilt

3. funner is a word.

True story...

Ezra Pound. Hear him read.

Rejected Again

So, once again, I didn't get in :( I'm not sure exactly what they are looking for. I feel like everyone tells me they like my stuff, but whenever I've tried to get published (only three times so far. I guess I have ten or seventeen more times before I'll give up. Well, I probably won't until I really believe that I suck) I get turned down. I think I'm good. But, then again, Horace said that friends and family make bad critics :) With that said, I feel like my family and friends are all pretty honest. Anyhow, I'm trying (successfully or unsuccessfully) not to let this get me down. I did think I was a sure bet this year. However, this has instilled a desire in me to self-publish a book of poems. I've thought about writing a poem each day, starting today, and seeing all the thoughts, feelings, and emotions, I experienced within a month. Here is the one I wrote today:

Sometimes, I would rather punch you
Than have you read my poem
Communication can be so difficult

Submissions to English Journal

I entered some poems for submission in an English journal on campus today. This will be my third time. I have never got anything in. I feel a little more anxious this time, mainly because I didn't turn anything of real worth in the last two times, so I didn't really care when they didn't get in. I keep reminding myself how subjective the whole process is, and that how a group of college students feel about my writing doesn't necessarily say anything about my ability. Nonetheless, it feels good to feel validated. I'll probably put a little book together for Christmas regardless. Here are some of the poems I submitted this time around:

Untitled

Saddam and a rope
hollow symbols
we try to strangle ideas
but pull up
an empty
noose

Punctuate

I wish I could punc,tu;ate my thoughts
Give myself a br;eak;
From madness

Nature

I'm sick of seeking inspiration in nature
I want to seek inspiration in my own nature
Find the valleys within me
Climb the mountains in my chest
Dig out truth from the corners
Of a being less known

Ode To The Beat

I never felt patriotic until I discovered the beat --
My hips possessed, gyrating to its rhythm
The melody could have birthed in my spirit
Fireworks and tired independence celebrations fail to move me --
Nauseated by insincere flag waving and shallow ribbons
Traditions of the past feel awkward
But the beat --
Driving my mind into the center of Miles' trumpet
Climbing out at the end of the 'I have a dream' speech
With enough time to hitchhike with Kerouac to a road of perceived freedom
Speeding on countless highways with jazz and intermissions of crappy rock n' roll blaring
Finding beauty in the grime
Discovering truth in the overlooked crevices of existence
Revealing --
An American spirit; raw and unique in form.

Desires of erotic
experimentation with multiple partners
fade
away
as I look into her eyes
love.

Ode to the Beat

I never felt patriotic until I discovered the beat --

My hips possessed, gyrating to its rhythm

The melody could have birthed in my spirit

Fireworks and tired independence celebrations fail to move me --

Nauseated by insincere flag waving and shallow ribbons

Traditions of the past feel awkward

But the beat --

Driving my mind into the center of Miles' trumpet

Climbing out at the end of the 'I have a dream' speech

With enough time to hitchhike with Kerouac to a road of perceived freedom

Speeding on countless highways with jazz and intermissions of crappy rock n' roll blaring

Finding beauty in the grime

Discovering truth in the overlooked crevices of existence

Revealing --

An American spirit; raw and unique in form

Recent Poem

Nature -

I'm sick of seeking inspiration in nature
I want to seek inspiration in my own nature
Find the valley's within me
Climb the mountains in my chest
Dig out truth from the corners
Of a being less known

239th Chorus

Charlie Parker looked like Buddha
Charlie Parker, who recently died...
"Wail, Wop" Charlie burst
His lungs to reach the speed
Of what the speedsters wanted
And what they wanted
Was his eternal Slowdown.

Jack Kerouac from Mexico City Blues

211^th Chorus

The wheel of the quivering meat conception

Turns in the void expelling human beings,

Pigs, turtles, frogs, insects, nits

Mice, lice, lizards, rats, roan

Racinghorses, poxy bucolic pigtics,

Horrible unnameable lice of vultures

Murderous attacking dog-armies

Of Africa, Rhinos roaming in the jungle,

Vast boars and huge gigantic bull

Elephants, rams, eagles, condors,

Pones and Porcupines and Pills –

All the endless conception of living beings

Gnashing everywhere in Consciousness

Throughout the ten directions of space

Occupying all the quarters in & out,

From supermicroscopic no-bug

To huge Galaxy Lightyear Bowell

Illuminating the sky of one Mind –

Poor! I wish I was free

Of that slaving meat wheel

And safe in heaven dead

i must re member
my hands have been tied
behind the back of another day
if only i could have them long enough
to dig up my feet
which have been planted
in the soiled sheets of a harvest
that only hate could reap
i keep trying to forget
but i must re member
and gather the scattered continents
of a self once whole
before they plant flags
and boundary my destiny
push down the warted mountains
that blemish this soiled soul
before the valleys of my conscience
get the best of me
i'll need a passport
just to simply reach the rest of me
a vaccination
for a lesser god's bleak history

- from Saul Williams book of poems entitled "She"

" Master Painter"

A master painter once clutched his brush --
Creativity sprinting fludily throughout his being
Tearing into the empty canvas, he attacked with insatiable passion
Pausing ever so often to reflect and steer the masterpiece
Focused delicately, carefully planting livelihood
Brushes dipped in every color imagineable
Breathing life --
Colors mixed, creating unfathomable hues
Past taboos of art thrown amidst other false realities
Unprecedented beauty soaked into the canvas
A radical, a visionary, a man of exceeding wisdom!
Tranfusing truth into each movement of the wrist
Creating depth effortlessly
Devouring each moment and each second of each stroke
He painted culture --
Placed his brush on the floor and stood in awe of his masterpiece

“The Box”

I’ve tried to fit in this box time and time again –

My shoulders pressed tightly against its inner walls

Breaths forced in and out of scarred lungs

Legs riddled with cramps, neck trumpet bent

My wings unable to extend –

My heart beating irregularly, conforming to the beat and tempo of others—

My mind synchronized to the thoughts of another day

Puzzled by the comfort others discover in the box

Trespassing the borders of my mind to understand

Exploring the cavities of truth and finding emptiness

The thought of the box haunting my dreams, mocking my future

Why must I conform?

Men sculpting their idea of divine manhood

Scoffing at the notion of individuality—

Guilt compelled placed hair

Polished voices leaking insincerity

Sucking passion from the spirit’s electricity

Do I sin in my wish?

Must I be consigned to the box and spend listless days in its confines?

Right or Wrong

Good or Bad

Right or Left

Surrounded by a society who understand only basic mathematics—

I fly out the box with courage and sip passion through a thick straw