Jamesbjohnson Is In The Building...

[bflagsst]

I read a few of your 'poems' and things haven't changed, they remain schizophrenic word salad. Then I looked around for a competent definition of POEM but didn't find one. I found perfessers talking out their asses in schizophrenic fashion.

So what is a poem?

A poem is revealed truth.

When I read the crap you post here I look for your truth.

A poem is the farthest thing from revealed truth. The truth a poem attempts to express is inexpressible, which I think you hinted at in one of your comments. Prose can express truths, really uninteresting truths. Poetry approaches the truth of the human condition by way of techniques and symbols that weren't designed as vehicles for coherent expression. Prose deals with plain old tautology, the same way dictionaries function. It's understandable it all seems incoherent to you if you haven't approached a poem since 1970 or was it 1870? As if Emily Dickinson was the last form, the final truth-teller.

 

[butters]

the most important truth a poem should reveal is its own- and all the better after some flirt, tease, and persuasion

hi blflagg, good to see you posting

 

[bflagsst]

I have nothing to say. Poems, I think, express unspoken and unspeakable sensory experience.

This is the comment I was referring. It's too limiting to say 'sense' or 'experience' are the only material a poem needs to approach and decipher. Dear old Emily in her attic certainly didn't experience all that much of the world but she certainly seems to have felt and attempted to express the whole gamut of emotion.

Most poets went out into the world and felt all the emotions firsthand, she was the very rare example of someone who attempted to translate the emotions others experienced and it's probably why she was/is incredibly unique, or just a curiosity.

Walt Whitman is her antithesis. Someone who experienced everything firsthand and wasn't attempting to say what Percy said because Percy couldn't possibly have experienced what he had.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

A poem is the farthest thing from revealed truth. The truth a poem attempts to express is inexpressible, which I think you hinted at in one of your comments. Prose can express truths, really uninteresting truths. Poetry approaches the truth of the human condition by way of techniques and symbols that weren't designed as vehicles for coherent expression. Prose deals with plain old tautology, the same way dictionaries function. It's understandable it all seems incoherent to you if you haven't approached a poem since 1970 or was it 1870? As if Emily Dickinson was the last form, the final truth-teller.

So whats the point of a poem? All sound and fury that signifies nothing?

As a psychologist I argue EMPATHY is bull shit because no one can get inside you, my normal state is prolly like LSD intoxication to many but works for me.

Poems try to get at things in a motto-like form.

 

[Magnetron]

So whats the point of a poem? All sound and fury that signifies nothing?

As a psychologist with a degree earned from mailing in cereal box tops I argue EMPATHY is bull shit because no one can get inside you, my normal state is prolly like LSD intoxication to many but works for me.

Poems try to get at things in a motto-like form.

Fixed this for you.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

Fixed this for you.

Expensive effing cereal if true.

 

[sr71plt]

I've got to say that, given how obvious JBJ's purposes and practices are, someone's really got to be super needy (as they apparently are on a thread in the AH regarding stories) to seek out comment on their work from him.

 

[bflagsst]

So whats the point of a poem? All sound and fury that signifies nothing?

As a psychologist I argue EMPATHY is bull shit because no one can get inside you, my normal state is prolly like LSD intoxication to many but works for me.

Poems try to get at things in a motto-like form.

Poetry as a vessel of information is predicated on the fact that we're social, empathetic creatures. Poetry is the empathetic art, so maybe that's why its become so unpopular. Project your sensibilities, Dr. Lotze. The openness of poetic interpretation is easy to criticize, but people don't experience the same thing in entirely the same way so why wouldn't the sound and fury signify many different things to many different people?

The point of any poem is to share a feeling, image, thought that is very difficult to express and hope that a reader has also experienced a similar feeling, image, thought and can access your symbol, sound. That you, Dr., help your patient access that 'truth' in the slightest way.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

I've got to say that, given how obvious JBJ's purposes and practices are, someone's really got to be super needy (as they apparently are on a thread in the AH regarding stories) to seek out comment on their work from him.

Youre the LIT equivalent of a drunk homeless bum begging change.

 

[sr71plt]

Youre the LIT equivalent of a drunk homeless bum begging change.

As is so often the case, you have nothing of substance to offer. The class clown.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

All please read this.

Trolls feed on response. Do not feed the trolls. It makes them persistent.

Deaf ears apparently.

you've shown your standards.

finit

Let's hope so.

Trolls have teeth and favor biting poets.

Seems some poets must enjoy it but, when you put your teeth back in to bite please curb your bigotry.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

Deaf ears apparently.



Let's hope so.



Seems some poets must enjoy it but, when you put your teeth back in to bite please curb your bigotry.

I'm a shit stain racist so get used to it.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

So I was looking at some of your poems and they remind me of garbage bags dumped on the kitchen table:

Potato peels and old tampax
And coffee grounds atop doggy poop
Punctuated with memos;
Is that all there is to kitty litter?

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

Heres the original SMALL WORLD lyrics, lets see what it can become!

it's a world of laughter, its a a world or tears
its a world of hopes, its a world of fears
theres so much that we share
that its time we're aware
its a small world after all

CHORUS:
its a small world after all
its a small world after all
its a small world after all
its a small, small world

There is just one moon and one golden sun
And a smile means friendship to everyone.
Though the mountains divide
And the oceans are wide
It's a small small world

 

[Magnetron]

So I was looking at some of your poems and they remind me of garbage bags dumped on the kitchen table:

Potato peels and old tampax
And coffee grounds atop doggy poop
Punctuated with memos;
Is that all there is to kitty litter?

Talking to anyone in particular?

Or just masturbating to the sound of your own voice?

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

Talking to anyone in particular?

Or just masturbating to the sound of your own voice?

Last I checked its mine, and I'll use it how I please.

 

[geronimo_appleby]

here you go, JBJ. it's the best i can do at the moment.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

For the 'poets' here.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

e.e.cummings

 

[pelegrino]

For the 'poets' here.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

e.e.cummings

That's a nice poem that could be for everybody, but if it is offered only for the "poets" here, one may take it as very exclusive, which is not.

 

[todski28]

You strive for complexity and confusion, and God does it easy. Schizophrenics blabber in Babelian gibberish no one follows. LIT poets do the same. Theyre simply making noise without intelligence.

Did you just mistake me for god?? Or am I misinterpreting you

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

Listen up. Within LIT rules and regs I intend to fuck all bad poets here, youre likely one of them. Have a nice day.

 

[todski28]

Listen up. Within LIT rules and regs I intend to fuck all bad poets here, youre likely one of them. Have a nice day.

meh if the best you can do is one bomb poems and dribble a whole heap of nonsense I'm pretty safe

 

[Lyricalli]

meh if the best you can do is one bomb poems and dribble a whole heap of nonsense I'm pretty safe

He has such a sad idea of what fucking is. <shakes head in pity>

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

He has such a sad idea of what fucking is. <shakes head in pity>

Let it begin with you.

 

[Lyricalli]

Let it begin with you.

You are tiresome at best. Your opinion means nothing to me, though I do find I can spare a bit of pity for you as I do anyone who seems to find their only comfort in misery and discontent.