Sunday, February 22, 2009

Situation! Location! Temptation!

Since both the colonel and I have posted poetry on here at this point, I figured I'd dip my toes into how I, at least, view poetry.

Poetry is about movement. There is movement from the title to the body, from word to word, line to line, and stanza to stanza. The movement, the path of a poem can dictate its meaning - or if there's any meaning to it at all.

A poem is not and should not be about the author's emotional state - instead, it rests entirely on the emotions evoked in the reader. As a poetry professor of mine once said, poetry today has far too much "I" and not enough art. The ego of the poet can often get in the way, making language in their poems too personal. This is not to say that poetry should not be intimate - and I'm certainly not hating on first-person poetry - but a truly personal poem must be approached with caution.

There are only three more things I have to say at the time (although I'm sure that over the next few days I'll be constantly hitting myself for leaving so much out), and the first is that poetry - and I'm speaking of mine in particular, but I can think of quite a few poets this applies to - has a creatively destructive element. That is to say, the linguistic violence contained within the act that is the poem is also productive. It produces thoughts, emotions, inspiration, and catharsis. As such, poetry is an exploration, both for the poet and the reader. It is about widening the space of the location in which language can perform.

Finally, I'll close with a thought on form from one of my favorite poets, Frank O'Hara. He had this to say: "As for measure and other technical apparatus, that's just common sense: if you're going to buy a pair of pants you want them to be tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you."

To be continued.
-the ambassador

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Ship of Fears

America has been set free
She flies
Full mast on the ground
Screaming to the atmosphere
Keep them at bay
Narcissistic bastards they are
Create rules for me
Die for me
I never wanted it
Do not die for me
I would not die for you
How do you think I have grown so old?
There is no heart of gold
Only lust
Take what is yours I will not shelter you

America sails again
Tie us together
With lies and this game
People have fallen for the slogan
What is to this phallic affiliation of hope and pride?

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

One (or Two at a Time)

There is a conundrum
some find facing them
(and I am no stranger
to this specific indecision)
when it comes
to the question:
shall we walk?
shall we drive?

On the one foot,
there is time to let
a topic or theory
or logic or query
really blossom (or evolve,
if your method is such)
and go where it may.

Then, and then again,
on the other, ass,
bubbled intimacy can
lead to spontaneously arousing
verbal double-backing,
and so I tell hands and self:
Pick your Prison.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Dead Zeppelin

This is a pop triumph,
the conquest of happiness
that subverts sunshine
and makes shadows soar
in importance.
Regardless of the impotence
of bibles and buddhas,
Siddhartha's smiles
mean exactly what you'd think.
The failure of the Hindenburg
to satisfy is America's
microcosmic life story.
We thought we were
getting out alive.
We thought we were
living our dreams.
It just goes to show
that you may know
what you know,
but you never really know
what it means.

-Bram Sadosa

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Hello, Comrade

Hello, walrus, wanton wreaker
of havoc and the like.
"spent," said simeon of his
masterful scandalous types.
bury your buddies in earth
softest cloth sofa-symbols
enclosing my voodoo
and bonding insomnia ties
to similarly shaped clavicle bones.

Hello, tiger, entrancing travesty
of flesh peeled from tendons.
you, sir, irreverent to a tee
and schooling the cells in me
with instructional pamphlets
and self-help tips for those we
call the Woebegones.

Hello, stingray, scalding synonym
for simple-minded folk like me.
the difference out of water flopping
awkwardly is the neutered tip
of the buddha's poisonous bubble.
I am scrawny dawn at six,
wrapping my lips around
slip-sliding cliffs rising in rhythm
with sunlit tones crossing haphazardly
across the horizon in front of she.

-Bram Sadosa

Monday, November 17, 2008

Telegram, 2008

My toes are sending
a message
to my heart -
about self-inflicted smog,
so many pinpricks
in my lungs
that they look like art.
COULD YOU QUIT, PLEASE (STOP)
WE'VE GOT AN ITCH, SEE (STOP)
It's the trick of evolution
(call it Darwin's Final Solution)
that the mind - not the feet -
came out on top.
So, dear audience
(since everything's on TV,
you might as well review me),
here's the punchline:
it's a clot.

-Bram Sadosa

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

New Vision

It is a simple rainfall, really.
I am a thorn thrown
implicitly,
a tag-along
ribbon on a runaway
balloon.

Seconds push and wriggle,
digging out a place for:
inherent pleas,
jubilantly
tugging their ears resolutely
at home -

With without their nine-ten
faculties
I direct them myself in
unseemly symphonies,
symphonies unseen since
the shapes they assume
are no longer
chronologically arranged.

Settle down,
speak coherently or turn
your eyes to me
so I can bereave the loss
of my anti-organic
identity.
You see string theory,
I see chaos and meat, ultimately.

It is a simple rainfall, really,
until it turns to ice and snow.
Every particular moment aids
entropy,
as a centrifuge
spins together: loves and moves
almost unerringly.
I am spell woven
indignantly,
a missile sent
to prey upon the minds of men.

-Bram Sadosa