My Cross (by Robert Service)

[George Dance]

My Cross


I wrote a poem to the Moon
But no one noticed it:
Although I hoped that late or soon
Someone would praise a bit
Is purity and grace forlorn,
Its beauty tulip-cool ...
But as my poem died still-born,
I felt a fool.

I wrote a verse of vulgar trend
Spiced with an oath or two;
I tacked a snapper at the end,
And called it /Dan McGrew/.
I spouted it to bar-room boys,
Full fifty years away,
Yet still with rude and ribald noise
It lives today.

'Tis bitter truth, but there you are --
That's how a name is made;
Write of a rose, a lark, a star,
You'll never make the grade.
But write of gutter and of grime,
Of pimp and prostitute,
The multitude will read your rhyme,
And pay to boot.

So what's the use to burn and bleed,
And strive for beauty's sake?
No one your poetry will read,
Your heart will only break.
But set your song in vulgar pitch,
If rhyme you will not rue,
And make your heroine a bitch ...
Like Lady Lou.

- Robert Service (1951)

[k'd]

Post by George Dance
My Cross
I wrote a poem to the Moon
Although I hoped that late or soon
Someone would praise a bit
Is purity and grace forlorn,
Its beauty tulip-cool ...
But as my poem died still-born,
I felt a fool.
I wrote a verse of vulgar trend
Spiced with an oath or two;
I tacked a snapper at the end,
And called it /Dan McGrew/.
I spouted it to bar-room boys,
Full fifty years away,
Yet still with rude and ribald noise
It lives today.
'Tis bitter truth, but there you are --
That's how a name is made;
Write of a rose, a lark, a star,
You'll never make the grade.
But write of gutter and of grime,
Of pimp and prostitute,
The multitude will read your rhyme,
And pay to boot.
So what's the use to burn and bleed,
And strive for beauty's sake?
No one your poetry will read,
Your heart will only break.
But set your song in vulgar pitch,
If rhyme you will not rue,
And make your heroine a bitch ...
Like Lady Lou.
- Robert Service (1951)

It wants to be rhyme, and a social commentary.

I don't really like it.

This is better, more real to me:


junk
Charles Bukowski



sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
female.
brown paper bags filled with trash are
everywhere.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about madhouses,
hospitals.
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
it's relief and foodstamps and
Medi-Cal.

men are usable objects
toward the fix.

it is one-thirty in the afternoon
and outside small plants grow,
their children are still in school.
the females smoke cigarettes
and suck listlessly on beer
and tequila
which I have purchased.

I sit with them.
I wait on my fix:
I am a poetry junkie.

they pulled Ezra through the streets
in a wooden cage.
Blake was sure of God.
Villon was a mugger.
Lorca sucked cock.
T.S. Elliot worked a teller's cage.

most poets are swans,
egrets.

I sit with 3 junkies
at one-thirty in the afternoon.

the smoke pisses upward.

I wait.

death is a nothing jumbo.

one of the females says she likes my yellow shirt.

I believe in a simple violence.

this is
some of it.

[George Dance]

Post by George Dance
My Cross

Post by George Dance
- Robert Service (1951)

It wants to be rhyme, and a social commentary.

I'm not ure if I'd agree with 'social commentary' - t's an old guy
reflecting back on his own career. (He couldn't get published until /
Dan McGrew'/ made him a star. That one poem made him half a million,
the richest author of his day.)


But I think I understand the criticism. As one of the posters here
put it recently, writing a poem is like juggling several balls in the
air - voice, imagery, message - and rhyme and rhythm are extra balls,
which can cause one to flub some of the others.

Post by George Dance
I don't really like it.

OK. I'm snipping here, because I'd like to comment on the Bukowski
poem separately. Unfortunately, as I'm replying through google, I
won't be able to change the subject line to reflect that.

[George Dance]

Post by k'd

Post by George Dance
My Cross
I wrote a poem to the Moon
Although I hoped that late or soon
Someone would praise a bit
Is purity and grace forlorn,
Its beauty tulip-cool ...
But as my poem died still-born,
I felt a fool.
I wrote a verse of vulgar trend
Spiced with an oath or two;
I tacked a snapper at the end,
And called it /Dan McGrew/.
I spouted it to bar-room boys,
Full fifty years away,
Yet still with rude and ribald noise
It lives today.
'Tis bitter truth, but there you are --
That's how a name is made;
Write of a rose, a lark, a star,
You'll never make the grade.
But write of gutter and of grime,
Of pimp and prostitute,
The multitude will read your rhyme,
And pay to boot.
So what's the use to burn and bleed,
And strive for beauty's sake?
No one your poetry will read,
Your heart will only break.
But set your song in vulgar pitch,
If rhyme you will not rue,
And make your heroine a bitch ...
Like Lady Lou.
- Robert Service (1951)

It wants to be rhyme, and a social commentary.
I don't really like it.

Thanks for posting this. I try to read a couple of poems, in depth,
every day; so today one will be Bukowski's 'junk'. (Today's other was
Emily Dickinson's "My Life had stood -- a Loaded Gun ---" FWIW).

Post by k'd
junk
Charles Bukowski
sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
female.
brown paper bags filled with trash are
everywhere.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about madhouses,
hospitals.
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
it's relief and foodstamps and
Medi-Cal.
men are usable objects
toward the fix.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon
and outside small plants grow,
their children are still in school.
the females smoke cigarettes
and suck listlessly on beer
and tequila
which I have purchased.
I sit with them.
I am a poetry junkie.
they pulled Ezra through the streets
in a wooden cage.
Blake was sure of God.
Villon was a mugger.
Lorca sucked cock.
T.S. Elliot worked a teller's cage.
most poets are swans,
egrets.
I sit with 3 junkies
at one-thirty in the afternoon.
the smoke pisses upward.
I wait.
death is a nothing jumbo.
one of the females says she likes my yellow shirt.
I believe in a simple violence.
this is
some of it.

That's certainly vivid writing. It did conjure up the scene in all
its detail.

As I understand it, the persona is a poet who's been at it for a
while, and has enjoyed some success, and is publishing. However, he's
also running out of things to write about. So he goes out and hires
three hookers, buys them alchohol and munchies, and spends the day in
a motel room with them, just for the sake of writing a poem about the
event. Not about the sex, or the conversation - there's none of the
first, and little of the second - but just about being in a motel room
with three hookers.

Post by k'd
From this new experience, it is hoped, a poem will emerge. And indeed

many lines emerge, including a single vivid image: "the smoke pisses
upward". That's about it.

You called the poem 'more real'; my respnse is to say that it reminds,
me, to a great extent, of a reality TV show. (Every week the poet can
be in a different room with three different characters, and write a
poem about them.)

I didn't really like this poem, either. But I'll read more Bukowski;
it does seem obvious that he's an acquired taste.

[NoLinks]

Post by George Dance

Post by k'd

Post by George Dance
My Cross
I wrote a poem to the Moon
Although I hoped that late or soon
Someone would praise a bit
Is purity and grace forlorn,
Its beauty tulip-cool ...
But as my poem died still-born,
I felt a fool.
I wrote a verse of vulgar trend
Spiced with an oath or two;
I tacked a snapper at the end,
And called it /Dan McGrew/.
I spouted it to bar-room boys,
Full fifty years away,
Yet still with rude and ribald noise
It lives today.
'Tis bitter truth, but there you are --
That's how a name is made;
Write of a rose, a lark, a star,
You'll never make the grade.
But write of gutter and of grime,
Of pimp and prostitute,
The multitude will read your rhyme,
And pay to boot.
So what's the use to burn and bleed,
And strive for beauty's sake?
No one your poetry will read,
Your heart will only break.
But set your song in vulgar pitch,
If rhyme you will not rue,
And make your heroine a bitch ...
Like Lady Lou.
- Robert Service (1951)

It wants to be rhyme, and a social commentary.
I don't really like it.

Thanks for posting this. I try to read a couple of poems, in depth,
every day; so today one will be Bukowski's 'junk'. (Today's other was
Emily Dickinson's "My Life had stood -- a Loaded Gun ---" FWIW).

Post by k'd
junk
Charles Bukowski
sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
female.
brown paper bags filled with trash are
everywhere.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about madhouses,
hospitals.
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
it's relief and foodstamps and
Medi-Cal.
men are usable objects
toward the fix.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon
and outside small plants grow,
their children are still in school.
the females smoke cigarettes
and suck listlessly on beer
and tequila
which I have purchased.
I sit with them.
I am a poetry junkie.
they pulled Ezra through the streets
in a wooden cage.
Blake was sure of God.
Villon was a mugger.
Lorca sucked cock.
T.S. Elliot worked a teller's cage.
most poets are swans,
egrets.
I sit with 3 junkies
at one-thirty in the afternoon.
the smoke pisses upward.
I wait.
death is a nothing jumbo.
one of the females says she likes my yellow shirt.
I believe in a simple violence.
this is
some of it.

That's certainly vivid writing. It did conjure up the scene in all
its detail.
As I understand it, the persona is a poet who's been at it for a
while, and has enjoyed some success, and is publishing. However, he's
also running out of things to write about. So he goes out and hires
three hookers, buys them alchohol and munchies, and spends the day in
a motel room with them, just for the sake of writing a poem about the
event. Not about the sex, or the conversation - there's none of the
first, and little of the second - but just about being in a motel room
with three hookers.

Post by k'd
From this new experience, it is hoped, a poem will emerge. And indeed

many lines emerge, including a single vivid image: "the smoke pisses
upward". That's about it.
You called the poem 'more real'; my respnse is to say that it reminds,
me, to a great extent, of a reality TV show. (Every week the poet can
be in a different room with three different characters, and write a
poem about them.)
I didn't really like this poem, either. But I'll read more Bukowski;
it does seem obvious that he's an acquired taste.- Hide quoted text -
- Show quoted text -- Hide quoted text -
- Show quoted text -

I love Bukowski & would always defend him. I think that he didn't hire
the women--if you read more Bukowski, you'll see that this is how he
envisioned his life. He's always hanging out with losers: alcoholics,
drug users, whores, homeless people. His characters are often
desperately on the edge. He was an alcoholic, too, if you believe
him.

As to Robert Service, I'm absolutely amazed that anyone can actually
make money writing poetry. I'm always shocked to learn that someone
has done so. A fellow student posted to me on a discussion board that
poetry is a good profession for me, but I don't see how poetry can be
a profession since it doesn't pay.

Leisha

[Dennis M. Hammes]

Post by NoLinks
I love Bukowski & would always defend him. I think that he didn't hire
the women--if you read more Bukowski, you'll see that this is how he
envisioned his life. He's always hanging out with losers: alcoholics,
drug users, whores, homeless people.

Think of how much he could have written had he had UseNet.

Post by NoLinks
As to Robert Service, I'm absolutely amazed that anyone can actually
make money writing poetry. I'm always shocked to learn that someone
has done so. A fellow student posted to me on a discussion board that
poetry is a good profession for me, but I don't see how poetry can be
a profession since it doesn't pay.
Leisha

"Amateur" is an old Latin word meaning "You can't abolish it by
refusing to pay for it."

[George Dance]

Post by NoLinks

Post by George Dance
Thanks for posting this. I try to read a couple of poems, in depth,
every day; so today one will be Bukowski's 'junk'. (Today's other was
Emily Dickinson's "My Life had stood -- a Loaded Gun ---" FWIW).

Post by k'd
junk
Charles Bukowski
sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
female.
brown paper bags filled with trash are
everywhere.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about madhouses,
hospitals.
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
it's relief and foodstamps and
Medi-Cal.
men are usable objects
toward the fix.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon
and outside small plants grow,
their children are still in school.
the females smoke cigarettes
and suck listlessly on beer
and tequila
which I have purchased.
I sit with them.
I am a poetry junkie.
they pulled Ezra through the streets
in a wooden cage.
Blake was sure of God.
Villon was a mugger.
Lorca sucked cock.
T.S. Elliot worked a teller's cage.
most poets are swans,
egrets.
I sit with 3 junkies
at one-thirty in the afternoon.
the smoke pisses upward.
I wait.
death is a nothing jumbo.
one of the females says she likes my yellow shirt.
I believe in a simple violence.
this is
some of it.

That's certainly vivid writing. It did conjure up the scene in all
its detail.
As I understand it, the persona is a poet who's been at it for a
while, and has enjoyed some success, and is publishing. However, he's
also running out of things to write about. So he goes out and hires
three hookers, buys them alchohol and munchies, and spends the day in
a motel room with them, just for the sake of writing a poem about the
event. Not about the sex, or the conversation - there's none of the
first, and little of the second - but just about being in a motel room
with three hookers.

Post by k'd
From this new experience, it is hoped, a poem will emerge. And indeed

many lines emerge, including a single vivid image: "the smoke pisses
upward". That's about it.
You called the poem 'more real'; my respnse is to say that it reminds,
me, to a great extent, of a reality TV show. (Every week the poet can
be in a different room with three different characters, and write a
poem about them.)
I didn't really like this poem, either. But I'll read more Bukowski;
it does seem obvious that he's an acquired taste.

I love Bukowski & would always defend him.

Fair enough. I'm not trying to attack him, though.

Post by NoLinks
I think that he didn't hire
the women--if you read more Bukowski, you'll see that this is how he
envisioned his life. He's always hanging out with losers: alcoholics,
drug users, whores, homeless people.

First, I can't imagine them going with him without pay, losing the
chance for their fix just for some alchohol. Second, I'd want him to
have paid them; since he got his fix - he wrote the poem - it's only
fair that they got theirs as well.

Post by NoLinks
His characters are often
desperately on the edge. He was an alcoholic, too, if you believe
him.

What's becoming clear to me from reading more of his poetry - in
particular, one i read yeterday called "gamblers all" - is that, in
his view, we're all living on the edge. Some of us may have money,
good jobs, nice clothes and homes, that puts us a bit more away from
the edge, but we're in a ismilar danger of falling over at any time.

Post by NoLinks
As to Robert Service, I'm absolutely amazed that anyone can actually
make money writing poetry. I'm always shocked to learn that someone
has done so.

It is an amazing story. But Service's poems touched a chord - even
before they were printed:
<quote>
After having collected enough poems for a book, Service offered a
publisher $100 of his own money to publish the work, but the publisher
was so sure that the works would be popular (he had already taken 1700
offers for sale off the galley proofs), he returned Service's money
and offered him a contract. </q>
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_W._Service


Apparently (bad this and on the internal evidence of "My Cross")
Service had been reciting his poems in saloons and such, and already
built up an audience.

Post by NoLinks
A fellow student posted to me on a discussion board that
poetry is a good profession for me, but I don't see how poetry can be
a profession since it doesn't pay.
Leisha

It's certainly a high-risk gamble; and many of the variables -
marketing, popular fashion, and even luck - have nothing to do with
the quality of the poetry. Contrast Service with Emily Dickinson, who
managed to publish only three or four poems in her lifetime.

Post by NoLinks
- Show quoted text -

[Dennis M. Hammes]

Post by George Dance
It's certainly a high-risk gamble; and many of the variables -
marketing, popular fashion, and even luck - have nothing to do with
the quality of the poetry. Contrast Service with Emily Dickinson, who
managed to publish only three or four poems in her lifetime.

Emily did not "manage" to publish anything; she didn't particularly
want them seen.
The four published in her lifetime were pilfered by her sister,
and Emily never saw nor heard of the publications.
As executor, the sister put together the three collections,
"Poems," "Final Harvest," and "Complete Poems" (597 incl notes), IIRC.

[Amadeus Jinn]

Post by George Dance
It's certainly a high-risk gamble; and many of the variables -
marketing, popular fashion, and even luck - have nothing to do with
the quality of the poetry. Contrast Service with Emily Dickinson, who
managed to publish only three or four poems in her lifetime.

Emily did not "manage" to publish anything; she didn't particularly want them seen.
The four published in her lifetime were pilfered by her sister, and Emily never saw nor heard of the publications.
As executor, the sister put together the three collections, "Poems," "Final Harvest," and "Complete Poems" (597 incl notes),
IIRC.

New One

I'm a line break.
Who are you?

[Will-Dockery]

Post by k'd

Post by George Dance
My Cross
I wrote a poem to the Moon
Although I hoped that late or soon
Someone would praise a bit
Is purity and grace forlorn,
Its beauty tulip-cool ...
But as my poem died still-born,
I felt a fool.
I wrote a verse of vulgar trend
Spiced with an oath or two;
I tacked a snapper at the end,
And called it /Dan McGrew/.
I spouted it to bar-room boys,
Full fifty years away,
Yet still with rude and ribald noise
It lives today.
'Tis bitter truth, but there you are --
That's how a name is made;
Write of a rose, a lark, a star,
You'll never make the grade.
But write of gutter and of grime,
Of pimp and prostitute,
The multitude will read your rhyme,
And pay to boot.
So what's the use to burn and bleed,
And strive for beauty's sake?
No one your poetry will read,
Your heart will only break.
But set your song in vulgar pitch,
If rhyme you will not rue,
And make your heroine a b**ch ...
Like Lady Lou.
- Robert Service (1951)

It wants to be rhyme, and a social commentary.
I don't really like it.
junk
Charles Bukowski
sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
female.
brown paper bags filled with trash are
everywhere.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about madhouses,
hospitals.
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
it's relief and foodstamps and
Medi-Cal.
men are usable objects
toward the fix.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon
and outside small plants grow,
their children are still in school.
the females smoke cigarettes
and suck listlessly on beer
and tequila
which I have purchased.
I sit with them.
I am a poetry junkie.
they pulled Ezra through the streets
in a wooden cage.
Blake was sure of God.
Villon was a mugger.
Lorca sucked c*ck.
T.S. Elliot worked a teller's cage.
most poets are swans,
egrets.
I sit with 3 junkies
at one-thirty in the afternoon.
the smoke pisses upward.
I wait.
death is a nothing jumbo.
one of the females says she likes my yellow shirt.
I believe in a simple violence.
this is
some of it.

The age old war between the classical and the modern.

Hopefully this will still post after so many years.

😊


This is a response to the post seen at:
http://www.jlaforums.com/viewtopic.php?p=683333552#683333552

[Will Dockery]

shit for brains

Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, "Me", that's probably just your upper lip
you smell.

:)

[Will Dockery]

On Wednesday, November 15, 2017 at 2:42:33 PM UTC-5, Stephan Pickering

On Wednesday, November 15, 2017 at 11:26:23 AM UTC-8, Will Dockery
Shalom & Boker tov, Will...these individuals trolls are peripatetic,
illiterate goldfish ...

Here's a funny coincidence. I was joking yesterday, when I'd mentioned
Taylor Swift as one of today's finest poets. Then I took a peek at your
"Taylor Swift is a gifted artist, the successor to Sylvia Plath, on the
same plane with Joni Mitchell and Laura Nyro..."
Congratulations! You're the living embodiment of my satirical depiction
of idiocy taken to the extreme.

So, Coco, you don't write poetry but you are sure one heck of a critic...

"Do not look behind the curtain," indeed.

:)