My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

Yet another selection from Ryan Adams’ Infinity Blues.

Joy

by Ryan Adams

When you say a thing that I write too much
I dream myself a thousand-plus
more books I wrote myself
and imagine them in a swinging stack
fainting
and collapsing onto you
as they crush your bones
in the name of art
in the name of american idealism
in the name of the future
because
fuck you and your sleeping wordless criticism
and
that path before me is lit with possibility
and lore
and my cup is not full because it is not a cup
it is a life
it is a heart
and me
I am trying to show you something
about yourself
not me
that a person can do anything
and
that is what hope is
so,
with all due respect,
fuck you if you dismiss this
because it is a process
and
I accept
if you discount what it has to say
but if I draw a line
and say
what have you done today
be prepared
because while you are sleeping
I am with the sunlight
and the life
and joy
joy will rise in the names

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

This week’s poem comes from Ryan Adams’ Infinity Blues.

Becausewhy

by Ryan Adams

because we are bored
We War
Because we are bored
We Fuck
sexy or not
and
Because we were born to fight
inside
we know
our children too, eventually will die
this is how it is
in the universe of ours
us against time
and
in this place,
show me where god stood up
and said otherwise
i say he does not speak
and may be everything
inside that thought
you are allowed
but may not keep
for the growing
of things
immeasurable
i have not seen him
while i have been alive
and regardless
heaven
that would not work
if men and women
were anything like this
someplace else
especially an elsewhere
of brights
and
if so
that is not a good place to go
i would not dine there
how could one relax
infinitely
in a place like that
so why?
becausewhy
that’s what
that’s what they say
right before
“shut up”
and i’m like
ok
no
never.
Fuck-Face.

It’s no secret that I’ve had a thing for pretty much everything Ryan Adams does for quite some time. I own a good handful of his many albums, I read his blog, followed his Twitter, watched him on Tumblr, and wherever else he chose to publish his words, videos and songs for 10 days at a time before deleting it all.

It started when a good friend introduced me to his album Love is Hell — one of the saddest and most beautiful collections of alt. country and piano ballads about heartbreak ever put to tape. It started a snowball effect that has slowed down but I doubt will ever stop until he does. (Coincidentally, he stated a while back that he’s on an indefinite hiatus from making music, so maybe that time has already come.)

So it comes as no surprise to most that I finally got around to reading Infinity Blues, his book of poems that he wrote a year or two ago.

Adams has undergone what seems to be a significant transformation in the last few years, having given up several addictions, getting married and, generally speaking, doing everything he can to shed the asshole image he had created for himself during several years of self-destructive actions on stage and off.

If nothing else, Infinity Blues is a look into the mind of Adams at the age of 33. It’s frantic, thoughtful, funny, sad and all over the map from one moment to the next. He talks candidly — and yet still with a shroud over names and events — about his broken family, lost loves, life in the city, art, faith and everything. In one poem he claims that he wrote anywhere from 3 to 17 poems a day for the book which, knowing his prolific creation schedule, isn’t too surprising.

If you like free verse poetry or watching Adams “find himself by losing himself,” Infinity Blues might be worth a read.

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

The following is a poem titled The Kingdom of God by Francis Thompson. I know nothing of Thompson other than when he was alive; or this poem, other than that it was quoted in part in The World’s Religions, a book I recently read.

The Kingdom of God

by Francis Thompson

O WORLD invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air—
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumour of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!—
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places;—
Turn but a stone, and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ‘tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendoured thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry,—clinging Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water
Not of Gennesareth, but Thames!

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

Another song cascading as a poem. Except Saul Williams is originally a slam poet (with degrees in acting and philosophy, no less) who found some release in hip-hop. So a poem it is.

Talk to Strangers

by Saul Williams

Now, I wasn’t raised at gunpoint and I’ve read too many books
To distract me from the mirror when unhappy with my looks
And I ain’t got proper diction for the makings of a thug
Though I grew up in the ghetto and my niggas all sold drugs

And though that may validate me for a spot on MTV
Or get me all the airplay that my bank account would need
I was hoping to invest in a lesson that I learned
I thought this fool had jumped me just because it was my turn

I went to an open space cause I knew he wouldn’t do it
If somebody there could see him or somebody else might prove it
And maybe, in your eyes it may seem I got punked out
Cause I walked a narrow path and then went and changed my route
But that openness exposed me to a truth I couldn’t find
In the clenched fists of my ego, or the confines of my mind
In the hipness of my swagger, or the swagger in my step
Or the scowl of my grimace, or the meanness of my rep
Cause we represent a truth, son, that changes by the hour
And when you open to it, vulnerability is power
And in that shifting form you’ll find a truth that doesn’t change
And that truth is living proof of the fact that God is strange

Talk to strangers when the family fails and friends lead you astray
When Buddha laughs and Jesus weeps and turns out God is gay
Cause angels and messiahs, love, can come in many forms
In the hallways of your projects or the fat girl in your dorm
And when you finally take the time to see what they’re about
Perhaps you find them lonely or their wisdom trips you out

Maybe you’ll find the cycles end you back where you began
But come this time around you’ll have someone to hold your hand
Who prays for you, who’s there for you, who sends you love and light
Exposes you to parts of you that you once tried to fight
And come this time around you’ll choose to walk a different path
You’ll embrace what you turned away and cry at what you laughed
Cause that’s the only way we’re gonna make it through this storm
Where ignorance is common sense and senselessness the norm
And flags wave high above the truth and the two never touch
And stolen goods are overpriced and freedom costs too much
And no one seems to recognize the symbols come to life
The bitten apple on the screen and Jesus had a wife
And she was his Messiah like that stranger may be yours
Who holds a subtle knife that carves through worlds like magic doors

And that’s what I’ve been looking for, the bridge from then to now
Just watching BET like, “What the fuck, son? This is foul.”
But that square box don’t represent the sphere that we live in
The earth is not a flat screen, I ain’t trying to fit in
But this ain’t for the underground, this here is for the sun
A seed a stranger gave to me and planted on my tongue
And when I look at you, I know I’m not the only one

As a great man once said,
“There’s nothing more powerful
than an idea
who’s time
has come.”

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

The Soviet

by mewithoutYou

God is love and love is real
But the dead are dancing with the dead
And whatever’s charming disappears
All things lovely only hurt my head

As I gather stones from fields
Like pearls of water on my fingers’ ends
And wrap them up in boxes
Safe from windows
From things that break

As the nighttime shined like day
It saw my sorry face
Hair a mess but it liked me best that way
Besides, how else could I confess?
When I looked down like if to pray
Well, I was looking down her dress

Good God! Please!
Catch for us the foxes
In the vineyard, the little foxes

So turn your ears, you musicians, to silence
Because they only come out when it’s quiet
Their tails brushing over your eyelids
Wake up, sleeper, and rise from the dead!
Or the fur that they shed
Is gonna lay on your bed
In a delicate, orange-ish cinnamon red

Ah, but I don’t need this!
Fall down! Stay down!
I don’t need this

One of my favorite songs by one of my favorite bands, and it just so happens to be one of the most sadly poetic things I’ve ever read.

Last week, while bouncing from airport to airport on Christmas day, I managed to read The Medium is the Massage in its entirety.

The book is what you might consider “experimental literature.” From page to page, layout, style and meaning change to go along with the ideas being addressed by Marshall McLuhan and Quentin Fiore. The subject matter is the philosophy of print and other types of modern media and how they relate to human psychology, education and the modern development of our society.

I ran through this one so quickly that I don’t have much insight to provide, other than to say that I enjoyed it thoroughly and wish I had written down half the book as quotes. I should probably get my own copy of the book and do that eventually.

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

Like Lilly Like Wilson

By Taylor Mali

I’m writing the poem that will change the world,
and it’s Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly Wilson, the recovering like addict,
the worst I’ve ever seen.
So, like, bad the whole eighth grade
started calling her Like Lilly Like Wilson Like.
ŒUntil I declared my classroom a Like-Free Zone,
and she could not speak for days.

But when she finally did, it was to say,
Mr. Mali, this is . . . so hard.
Now I have to think before I . . . say anything.

Imagine that, Lilly.

It’s for your own good.
Even if you don’t like . . .
it.

I’m writing the poem that will change the world,
and it’s Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly is writing a research paper for me
about how homosexuals shouldn’t be allowed
to adopt children.
I’m writing the poem that will change the world,
and it’s Like Lilly Like Wilson at my office door.

She’s having trouble finding sources,
which is to say, ones that back her up.
They all argue in favor of what I thought I was against.

And it took four years of college,
three years of graduate school,
and every incidental teaching experience I have ever had
to let out only,

Well, that’s a real interesting problem, Lilly.
But what do you propose to do about it?
That’s what I want to know.

And the eighth-grade mind is a beautiful thing;
Like a new-born baby’s face, you can often see it
change before your very eyes.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, Mr. Mali,
but I think I’d like to switch sides.

And I want to tell her to do more than just believe it,
but to enjoy it!
That changing your mind is one of the best ways
of finding out whether or not you still have one.
Or even that minds are like parachutes,
that it doesn’t matter what you pack
them with so long as they open
at the right time.
O God, Lilly, I want to say
you make me feel like a teacher,
and who could ask to feel more than that?
I want to say all this but manage only,
Lilly, I am like so impressed with you!

So I finally taught somebody something,
namely, how to change her mind.
And learned in the process that if I ever change the world
it’s going to be one eighth grader at a time.

Taylor Mali is a personal favorite poet. I enjoy slam poetry and poems that are better when recited live. So here’s Mali performing it:

The other day I was reading about absurdism. Actually, I take that back: I was reading a comic about absurdism. Close enough, right? Right.

Completely coincidentally, it’s apparently an idea that none other than Søren Kierkegaard is partially responsible for.

The fundamental idea behind absurdism is this: finding the meaning of the universe is impossible because no meaning exists (as in, the universe is cold, dark and unforgiving). Therefore, to attempt to find meaning is absurd, and the only ways to “win” (if you want to call it that) are:

• Commit suicide
• Adopt a set of religious beliefs (aka “philosophical suicide,” since religion requires faith, which is the opposite of pure logic, which is the foundation of philosophy)
• Accept the absurd

In other words, you can either give up or learn how to fake it.

Granted, this is all founded on the idea that the universe is meaningless, which is the point to argue here, and I would in some sense argue against it. But maybe that’s because I don’t want to wear a tutu and hand out hot dogs at a water polo game.

And so ends yet another pointless exploration into the world of philosophy by yours truly. I hope it has been sufficiently educational. And perhaps this will help make more sense of Albert Camus’s The Stranger, should you pick it up again (or for the first time) in the near future.

Just now I was listening to Ian MacKaye (of Minor Threat and Fugazi) on the Sound of Young America podcast. He said something which, in retrospect, was obvious. I’d just never quite put it so succinctly:

[I have a friend from high school who] has a 13 year old son. And his 13 year old son is a massive Minor Threat fan. In 2009! And I think that’s just incredible! The idea that music, if it’s created in a way that is honest, can still resonate. Kids can still be like, “Yeah, that means something to me.”

It’s interesting how transcendent honesty can be. How the teenybopper pop from the 70s and 80s (Leif Garrett anyone?) has almost zero relevance now while punk rock still inspires and expands, and is well on its way to powering through three generations.

What else are people doing now with music that will still resonate and inspire in 30 years? It’s certainly not “Party in the USA” or that damn Justin Bieber song. It’s what the teenagers do who aren’t listening to top 40 radio or the top-purchased pop songs on iTunes.

I don’t know what that is because I’m an old fogey already at the ripe age of 25. (Seriously, I felt like a grandpa when I saw Vampire Weekend last month.) Maybe it’s a kid writing the next Heartbreaker or some high-schooler learning how to use Ableton Live and a synthesizer, or Talbot Tagora, who are sneaking into their 20s and already touring the US as a noise rock trio (music I’m just now learning to appreciate and understand). Those damn kids and their music.