Would You Suggest Writing as a Career?

[strangegirl]

Well said Father Luke.


i can relate to this. When your passion becomes your job you will eventually, but not always become tired of it.
When you write for yourself you are doing just that. Not on someone else's dime.
That's when there is passion. With a career doing anything you love you have to be careful, it can turn that passion into the one thing you despise. This is just my opinion and I am certain that not everyone feels the same.
Case in Point, I am a Sound Editor, I do love what I do, but i am doing it for someone else. And at the end of a very long day, i don't necessarily want to create something, sound wise, for my self, I just want to turn off. Period... Disconnect Not be associated with anything that has to do with my job. Turn off the sound totally......
Quiet....
So i write.
I write for me.. stupid little things that no one else will see, I am content not having to worry about whether it was good enough. So i write honestly for myself and I like that.
I would never even think about it as a career.
That would be like eating a quart of chocolate ice cream, which i love, everyday.
After a while.... it becomes boring and bland.

Thank you Father Luke, as always an inspiration.

 

[mjp]

...the name that comes immediately to mind is Arthur Rimbaud, the great French poet of the 19th century. Rimbaud wrote all of his work by the age of 19...

Everyone points to Rimbaud whenever someone claims that life experience makes a better writer. But let's not forget, for someone born in 1854, life expectancy was about 40 years. Longer if you had some money, or took it easy and didn't engage in a crazy life, which Rimbaud certainly did. So a 16 year old in 1872 is kind of like today's 35 year old. Creeping up on middle age. ;)

I can't warm up to him, but that's neither here nor there. I don't read French, so my opinion isn't really important. The only reason I know the name is because so many of the New York art school tribe who were in early punk bands in the mid 70's trotted out his name every chance they got to make themselves sound intellectual. In general, it's difficult - for me - to relate to ye olden writings, whoever did them. The language puts me to sleep. The only exception was Twain, who wrote in (mostly) plain language, and was marginalized and put in the "humorist" ghetto because of it.

So, yeah, go Rimbaud! But keep young writers away from me, please, until they taste some blood. However you want to interpret that.

 

[jmoshea]

"...today's 35 year old. Creeping up on middle age."

Fuck me. I'm coming up on middle age. I guess so...

I can't wait for my mid-life crisis. I guess its supposed to be worse than the ones I had as a teenager, my early 20s and right around 30?

Now wait a minute, no male on my father's side has ever made it passed 60...so I guess that crisis I had at 30 was my mid-life crisis. Phew.

Then again, now I am creeping up on my senior years.

 

[hoochmonkey9]

The only reason I know the name is because so many of the New York art school tribe who were in early punk bands in the mid 70's trotted out his name every chance they got to make themselves sound intellectual.
So, yeah, go Rimbaud!

yep, I love Patti Smith, but she rode the Rimbaud name like the naked kid in Equus.
and she had a Jim Morrison fetish too. so did Iggy. so did I, but I was only 16, and I'm no Rimbaud.
I don't know if I write better now than I did at 20, but my attitude about it is better. when I was 20, any shit that managed to dribble out of my pen was greeted with appropriate fanfare (by me and me only) befitting a boy genius. ha!
now when something manages to crawl across the microsoft word screen I fret and moan and have an existential crisis and get drunk for 3 days straight before I manage to put it in an envelope and send it off to a magazine.
so which is better?
fucknose.

 

[mjp]

when I was 20, any shit that managed to dribble out of my pen was greeted with appropriate fanfare (by me and me only) befitting a boy genius. ha!

Well, that's the problem, isn't it. When you are new at something, everything you create is exciting, you're the first person in history to do it, and people better back up and give you the respect you are due! Stir in a little general teenage angst, and you've got the recipe for some "art" that you will live to outgrow, should you stick with it.

I am really, really glad there was no MySpace (or worse, usenet (now archived forever on Google)) when I was 15.

 

[Purple Stickpin]

Well, at the risk of getting hammered, and perhaps deservedly so, here's a bit I did for a contest at Bukowski Tavern in conjunction with Harpoon Brewery. I never submitted this. The only requirements were the use of the words, "Bukowski," "pen," "pint," and "Harpoon." I don't think my bit would have pleased them, but here it is:

Pointless


The interior is somewhat greyed, even if not truly grey. The walls speak, but the language is thankfully unfamiliar. A single sheet of wallpaper in the kitchen has begun to slowly droop, long ignored, several feet down from the ceiling, next to the refrigerator. Silence is the preferred means of communication here.

A sad, tired balustrade hangs from the frayed brick exterior, on rusted bolts, just off the livingroom, which bears the mark of a tired, yet somehow mired characature of bawd; one schooled in how not to be schooled; one dripping with a grin of wisdom not seen by ordinary eyes. There is a certain resoluteness about the place; a calm, yet disturbed peace that eeks from the stale air within. Confusion is palpable. The grey sometimes fades, and sometimes lightens; all the time a distant clacking sound is almost imperceptibly audible. The corroded Delongpre Avenue sign in the corner is dusty and tells no tale.

The thought of looking in the bedroom is both intriguing and revolting. Intrigue it is. The scattered 10s and 20s in the closet are telling, yet dissapointingly cliché. What is striking is the row of flower pots on the wall shelves and window sashes, bursting with geraniums. The color and fragrance is captivating, nearly intoxicating. Fresh buds and flowers in full bloom, smiling with all that they portend. Truly a disconnect is here, and the truth behind it is now gone to the earth. Words may beckon, but eyes will fail.

A woman with long brown hair, tight jeans, and cowboy boots emerges from a distant place in the grey, and mutters that the '67 Volks was a piece of junk. The words stab, but they do not inflict any pain. A second woman, more voluptuous, with short black hair and big tits, decapitates the cowboy-boot wearing woman. Then they are gone. The BMW has a black leather interior. It doesn't matter. It's all grey, even if it isn't.

Horses don't run today, as it is Christmas. The track will be muddy in this foul rain, and the hard seats that much more uncomfortable because of it on the 26th. Damn it all; bet from the bar. Scotch and water, and a high yellow with thighs like tree-trunks. That and Sterling Snuffling in the 2nd, and things will be alright.

Can't break this; can't even keep this in memory. It has flocked my brain, and it is beating like a parlayed heart. Time may be a window; reality a pair of dirty undershorts, but it all smacks of pretense. This must be locked away, forever hidden from a realm of existence too mad to know the light of day. What shall it be? A question? A myth? A fallacy? This is far too much. It must be destroyed. Thrown to the deepest reaches of misery or love, it must be...

And somehow there is a need to compose this. Which brings up the subject of writing implements. Bukowski shunned the pen, preferring the typer. If he were here right now, he'd probably peel the cellophane from a pint of Cutty Sark, and harpoon the shack-job, bringing all those geraniums down from the shelves in grand fashion.

 

[mjp]

I can't wait for my mid-life crisis. I guess its supposed to be worse than the ones I had as a teenager, my early 20s and right around 30?

I don't know, I'm still waiting for some kind of crisis or something to happen. And I am (hopefully) more than half way through life. I don't want to be a 100 year old in 2060. Assuming we're still here, and PETA hasn't blown us up.

 

[esart]

OK - lets be honest

Many of us are writers and poets and creative types here. Lets share some laugbably bad Buk-type poems of ours. Written when we were totally inspired and drunk and giddy on the work of Bukowski. Cmon - I know many of us did. Allow me to go first and embarrass myself !.....

THAT SPELL

on those days
when the muse
sings to me

she usually
grabs me early

and grinds her hips
into mine
and begins whispering

forget your job
your appointments
the phone calls
the weather
traffic and breakfast

we've got work to do

and i always obey

who wouldn't

her visits are jewels
hiding in the dumpster

surprise love notes
under the wiperblades

the receptionist saying
don't worry
it's covered

and my guitar spills forth
and the notebook fills up

and the world
keeps spinning
perfectly well

without my feet on the treadmill.

that is not bad. that's pretty great.

 

[HarryC13]

So a 16 year old in 1872 is kind of like today's 35 year old. Creeping up on middle age. ;)

I agree, Rimbaud isn't my cup of tea either. But hell, if 35 is creepin' up on middle age, lord love a duck, I'm either creepin' up on OLD AGE or ... DEATH! :) (Maybe if I creep quietly death won't hear me and I can sneak by ... I agree with Yossarian in Catch 22): vowing to "live forever or die tryng."

 

[esart]

I write, but not much poetry in the last 10 years. I wrote before I discovered Hank. I wrote a lot of poems and songs, and even published some in zines and whatnot, but I've never written a good poem in my life. I squeak out a good line once and a while, but it's usually amongst a lot of putrid, abstract crap. I think I write a little better as a blogger, or articles/essays, and I really like writing short stories. I would not attempt to post my bad poems here. You guys are much much braver than I would have guessed. There's a few good gems here.

 

[HarryC13]

I would not attempt to post my bad poems here. You guys are much much braver than I would have guessed. There's a few good gems here.

I don't post mine here either, but not necessarily because they're bad. A lot of magazines, I'm finding, consider poems posted in blogs or on sites like this to be published. Just want to save 'em for the mags. As to whether my poems suck or not, I'm reminded of a 1979 Shaun Cassidy TV movie called Like Normal People. Cassidy plays Roger, a mildly retarded young man who writes poetry. When asked whether Roger's poetry is any good, his counselor says, "Some of it is good and some of it is bad. The difference between him and you is that he doesn't know the difference."

Unfortunately, when I look at my stuff, neither do I. :)

 

[jmoshea]

"Lets share some laugbably bad Buk-type poems of ours."

the fight of your life

the fight
is fifteen rounds
unless you go
down

in the first
five you take
a lot
of big hits

crushing
blows to the head
and body

you might even get knocked
to the canvas
a few times

I got knocked
out of the fucking ring
once

but you get back up
crawl through the ropes
if you have to and

stand up

the next five
you use what you learned

defense
stick and move
put your gloves up
hit him before he hits you

you might start
to sense that you're winning
it feels good
to know what you're doing

but soon
you start to wear down
you fight
on heart alone

I haven't
made it to the last five yet
but they say
this is where

champions are made

 

[HarryC13]

"Lets share some laugbably bad Buk-type poems of ours."

All right, you're on, it's a rare slow day at work. Here's one that I had published in Chiron Review way back in 1989. At the time, certain poets (Todd Moore comes to mind) were writing about supposedly shocking stuff using very short lines. This was my parody of that:

Groin Death
(for the short-and-savage-line school of poetry)

sal sd look
here my willy's
limp as a homo's
wrist but then spit
a hawker & sd
so what I'm a
man I've handled
worse like ar
bitrary line
breaks no biggie I
'll just rip
off the dick
of the first
guy who crosses
me & sew it
to me w/monofilament
line & I sd
but sal what
am I s'posed
to realize about
life from this
poem & he sd
I don't care
faggot I write
real man poems
& if you don't
like it you
better cover
yr crotch & I
shut up &
felt my balls
crawl up inside
me like landing
gear guarding against
groin larceny
& I thought so
that's poetry

 

[jmoshea]

that quote was originally Number6's...

I like that one, Harry...parody or no.

 

[HarryC13]

I actually liked yours too. When I look back at my older stuff one thing I often think is, "why didn't you just say it simply and get to the point?" Your poem is direct and simple.

 

[jmoshea]

direct and simple is what I strive for...thanks.

 

[workproductions]

Bukowskism?

The decision to hold
another, against a rising
tide of discretion
is sometimes, a sudden occurance
drawn with an open glance,
filling the substance of memories
with time well spent.

For it hurts to wander
one's chosen route, alone
above the pleas of the body,
the pleas of heart,
needs of the soul.
We must share in the joy,
the pain, in the value of
meaning as assigned.

We yearn for an ear to understand
situations, coincidence or plans
which, it does not matter.
For with good company
comes this understanding,
this meaning,
purpose.

One who lives, for the sake of lesser
pleasures may never know
happiness. Nor hope another may fill
their void, that leaking wound
of a failed attempt,
a broken grasp at love.

The act of a lonesome death of which few acknowledge,
and less care to know.

 

[roni]

sorry to post here.
just wrote this. no title.




Love is a Lie.

a Lie, a Lie
and a Lie.
but a
Beautiful
Lie.

A Lie, i want to belieave in.

A Lie of hope,
of endurance.
a lie, that keeps you GOING.


but still a lie.

 

[Kingcargo.jb]

Great job roni! Beautiful.

 

[roni]

thanks.
i think the message is right.
still, as a poem it's crap.

i may have to work on it.
but i won't.


and still it's a lie!
of some kind.



but thanks! - and THAT's No Lie!

 

[HarryC13]

I like its simplicity. Go ahead, do a little work on it, I dare ya! It's good already but I'll bet you can make it better.

 

[David]

Love is like the fog that burns away with morning sun

What does Hank say in that interview that I think is in "Born into this"? Love is like the fog that burns away with the morning sun, or something like that!:):):) Yeah, it's an illusion, but it sure the hell feels good while it lasts....

 

[workproductions]

Love is like the fog that burns away with the morning sun, or something like that!:):):)

The same may be said for a human life in general.

 

[Jurak ot Petrof]

badly translated poem

old days, long nights
miserable bars, good defeats
all that
and
your shadow over my balls
you're leaning to blow me
you're leaning on your knees
oh, yeah - how many leaps
oh, yeah - how much leap stick and gallons of perfume up to here
allow me to hide your love
to kiss you over a drink or two
to confront you with all the shapes of your existence
1 question 1 answer and 1 love letter in the sand
let the buildings chase the sky
you still got time to meet me
and 1.000 dreams to understand
how low the voice, how low?
how many bullets in the barrel, how many bodies in front of the gun?
how deep the nails, how deep?
how many hits on noon, how many crosses in the after noon?
i've find a light at the end of the cigarette
and memories stuck between the wood on the floor
leave the melancholy to write poems in the dust
dead lovers, broken bones in the teeth of the dog
let the fog swallow the ships
let the rain to piss in the ocean and the city to lay down on the sidewalk
look - the moon is celebrating shooting at the stars
the night pukes drunks on the corner
come out from all the beds you've been in
here's enough room for the longing from your heart
i can not bury this promise
i can't see over this curtain - i must cry too
kilometers, miles and hours
nerves, wounds and dust took me to the harbor
bring your pussy again
bring it closer and drown the love inside
damn it, i'd fuck you 'till the end of your sanity
i'd took you to the end of vanity,
if i could recognize a dock in your belly button.

 

[Jurak ot Petrof]

no one starts writing after reading another writer, do many should stop. haha.

 

[Jurak ot Petrof]

i have a queston to - who moved my poem here?

 

[Jurak ot Petrof]

I've seen a few mentions of magazine submissions by users around here so I'll broach this topic - how many of you are writers? If you are a writer, did Bukowski inspire you to start/continue/give up?

anyway. i supose that the wrong question should never wait for the wright answer.

 

[Carterofmars]

Here is one i wrote about my 9/11 experience.


I told you to take the stairs


that morning after leaving the subway,
after seeing the plume
reach the top of the sky,

down to the street
run to the east
I told you.

The sound of planes made a sea of people
duck their heads in a sickening wave-
I saw this.

And the silence while crossing the bridge
was the worst silence
I've ever heard.


joe

 

[jmoshea]

old days, long nights

This is the worst poem I have ever read...and I don't think it became that way due to meaning lost in translation.

 

[David]

It was hot in LA
95 degrees and I sat
at the typer
three cats sat sleeping at my feet
I lit a sher bidi, turned to my right
and took a hit of my German Bernkastel
listening to Mozart while writing
this poem