Being Bardi

Written for:brigits_flame
{Prompt:“You taught me language, and my profit on't is, I know how to curse.”
Word Count:163
Genre:Poetry
Warning: Suggestive language.


( Proper Usage )

Back in the early 60s, Kenneth Rexroth wrote an article on the impending demise of Poetry. Glancing over carious items this morning, it seems that Cincinnati at least is full of open mic nights for poetry. I have an inbox full of poetry to critique. And a google for 'my poems' results in over 33 million hits. 33 1/3 to be precise. Talk about retro.

Anyway. There are a few problems in this apparent poetic paradise.

One being that yes there are tonnes of open mic nights and web sites and this that and the other. But the actual number of sites who pay for poetry has alas declined. I am talking here not about University literary mags but about good old fashioned poetry magazines. Once upon a time one did not have to live in the academic community to publish poetry and actually afford coffee.

Another being that anyone who wants proof of Sturgeon's Law* need only look at the above mentioned long play vinyls worth of sites. Here is a stunningly arrogant thought. The vast majority of 'poets' today know nothing of poetry. They read themselves, they may read each other. But how many have read poetry outside of the classroom. Say, the above mentioned Kenneth Rexroth? Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas, Robert Lowell, Seaumus Heaney, Gary Snyder? The above just a few who have published in my life time and thus who I do not consider ancient poets. Or played with words? Or experimented with styles or forms just for the love of poetry.

Poetry, I am going to say, is not just about self expression. It is a form of creativity thousands of years old and ever so much fun to play with. Yes I write blank verse. One could question how much of it is actually free verse if you look closely enough. Or more precise, if you listen close enough. Just saying


*"ninety percent of everything is crap" Although with deference to Mr Sturgeon, I think the percentage is higher.

Some nights
I let my paranoia loose
like a small dog
that deserves a treat

it yips
its way
through the tables
and maneating sofas

Some nights
I let my paranoia loose
and it whispers of truths
and halftruths in the

night of repeating strangers