Word Garden Word List #5 (Gregory Corso)

 

One of my earliest poetic loves and inspirations was Gregory Corso, for his wild, beautiful, irreverent use of language and for the pure energy and vitality of his work. If gorgeous angels were prone to "getting in your face" all while being thoroughly entertaining, that's what Grepory Corso was, and is, in his writing.

Strongly associated with Ginsberg, Kerouac, and the "Beats", Corso was nevertheless different from them. His early life was about as hard as can be imagined, and he was left largely or completely on his own from a young age. He once sold a toaster he was meant to deliver for enough money to buy nice clothes so he could attend "Song of Bernadette." (What street kid does that?!?) He was arrested and sent to New York's infamous "Tombs" and put in a cell next to a man who had murdered his girlfriend with a screwdriver. He was 13 years old. Somehow, he survived and managed to educate himself by reading during his incarceration. Along the way, several people recognized his genius and helped him to get started as a poet. However, he was never a conventional one, and even though he was one of the Beats, he was never considered the equal of the "stars" of that movement, though time has shown him to be every bit their equal, and in my opinion he outshines them all. 

This week's list is taken from two of his volumes: Gasoline and the Happy Birthday of Death. I really hope that you enjoy the list and that it spurs your creativity.

What we do here is this: write a poem using at least 3 of the twenty words on the following list. Your poem need not have anything to do with Corso except for the three(or more) words. The list is a springboard. Then just link, visit, comment. Prompt stays "live" through Friday. And now, without further ado, your list:

acrobat

beauty

birthday

bones

eat

Egyptian

engines

erupt

fierce

ghost

glorious

nuns

ocean

Rimbaud

sorrow

steal

tv

weather

wig

yawns

Sevenling (On an afternoon dark as Egyptians)

 On an afternoon dark as Egyptians,

I buy a used copy of Rimbaud

and cannot hold my bones in place.

Sit on the sand, the ocean will reach and draw back

like tempted nuns

at the proscribed birthday of boho ghosts.

Acrobats pull stitches from the binding for nets.

for Word Garden Word List #5 (Gregory Corso)

Lorca-Hemingway

 

Lorca-Hemingway is a fixture at the cafe.

His blood consists of La Marseillaise and dove-moons.

It pounds through his body like a glorious parade.

When I see him, I walk with back bent backwards,

slinking like a cartoon cat,

short of breath, tail-talking, stupid, exalted, way obvious.

Hand him your copy, he'll sign it in terse bluebirds.

He is his own hotel room, there's always

some blowsy blonde on the bed, quietly detonating.

Young men line up near his table, as if there were a war

or a desperate national need for Gypsy violins.

A waiter serves orange suns from embossed tin trays.

I paint Lorca-Hemingway's skin with brandy cologne,

so that all bullets turn away and take trains to Barcelona.

I send myself as a telegram into his latest masterpiece:

I am a peony petal inside a bud stop

you are a man and a girl and a secretary bird stop

angels inside you carry death and glory in little satchels stop

Now I conceal Lorca-Hemingway inside me like a trick lighter.

No one in the cafe can find him, but in the nick of time

Brett Ashley smiles with a cigarette in her lips and 

I flame!

Oh yes,

I flame.

_________

for The Sunday Muse #191, where I am hosting one last time.

Craxis

 

I keep seven calendars, six clocks,

and live in a brick house on a street with no wolves.

There is wind sometimes,

stars,

and I like to read when it rains.

I have been here twenty years and buried five dogs.

I was married before,

considered suicide,

kicked booze,

had a garden.

Every morning, I rise early.

Things must be begun immediately, worked on steadily.

I like muffins and coffee.

I think of my father tearing out his feeding tube,

eager to die if he couldn't have an omelette or a cigar.

The butter and blackberry jam are superb.

I will write another poem this morning,

do dishes,

take time for my projects,

watch some tv.

There is a new spot on my neck. It's nothing.

My dog watches me watch myself in the mirror.

I wonder if anyone will want my books when I die?

I shake it off, go and put on boots.

"Come on," I tell him, "We have jobs to do."

We spend the day outdoors,

come in happy and tired.

I give him part of my snack as a movie plays.

Then, time for bed. 

Brush teeth, 

consider what got done and what didn't,

go around and double check that the doors are locked.

Who would take care of my dog if I died?

We are both just heart beats

in a bed in a house in a sprawling world.

I kiss his head, turn off the light.

"I love you," I tell him,

as I used to tell my spouse, my child, my other dogs.

"See you in the morning."

I close my eyes and sleep easy, as if it were a given.

________

for Dverse Poetics The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, hosted by Linda Lyberg.

image: Woman With An Airdale Terrier by Edvard Munch

Word Garden Word List #4 (Laura Nyro)

 

Hi everyone, it's me, with your weekly word list writing prompt! This time, the words are taken from the lyrics of songs written by the late Laura Nyro. Haven't heard of her? You've probably heard her songs recorded by others, from Blood Sweat & Tears to Three Dog Night to The 5th Dimension and many others. 

When I was 16, I was visiting a friend at her apartment, and she had some record albums leaning against the wall. The one in front was Laura Nyro "New York Tendaberry." I wondered who this wild-haired woman was, standing in the wind, looking like some sort of urban poet goddess. I soon bought a copy for myself and....mind. blown. Soon after, I bought the rest of her albums. Check out these lyrics from "Stoney End" with which Barbra Streisand had a hit:

Never mind the forecast

Cos the sky has lost control

And the fury and the broken thunder's come

To match my ragin' soul

Or this, from New York Tendaberry:

Sidewalk and pigeon

You look like a city

But you feel like religion to me

Laura was born in the Bronx in 1947. She says that music was, from an early age, a way for her to cope with a difficult childhood. "I've created my own little world, a world of music, since I was 5 years old." She never sought fame, and in fact, shied away from it. Even though her songs are best known as sung by others, her own singing is passionate and covers three octaves. She composed her own songs, and played piano on them, in a unique and amazing style unlike anyone else. I can't even express how much her songs and the way she performed them inspired my own creativity, and still do. 

Laura passed of ovarian cancer at the young age of 49 in 1997. She was an animal rights activist and mother of one. She is missed.

And now, without further ado, are your 20 words! Please use at least 3 of them to write a poem of any length or style, OR a "flash 55" which is a poem or flash fiction consisting of exactly 55 words. Then link (Yes, we now have a linky!), visit, and enjoy. Prompt stays "live" through Friday.

blues

cats

captain

coffin

confession

cradle

fearless

firecrackers

forecast

fury

holy

lazy

patience

pigeon

religion

stoned

train

tomcat

whistle

winter

Alley Cat Queen

 

There she is, the one the cats call queen,

the one you find fearless,

standing by the resale store

holding the rising sun in her half-curled fingers.

You quit getting stoned when you heard the trainman

blow his whistle in a nightmare at noon,

but now look--you're wasted on this woman.

Her, with her corona of crows, and pigeon entourage.

Love is lazy, chica. It sleeps cos it feels like falling,

and only gets up to set the winter on fire.

You need those ice-bones that doxed a coffin

but you're pouring yourself out like a tapped sugar tree.

I know, baby, I know. Love the buzz, hate the forecast,

but here's religion, honey, here's firecrackers on the altar:

the bright on her body, the heavens in her hand?

It all came from you. She's just a moon, reflecting,

And she blinks out every time you close your eyes.

_________

for Word Garden Word List #4 (Laura Nyro).

image: Chinese actress Fan Bingbing

A Conversation

 

I've read what you wrote.

And? Brilliant, yes?

Brilliant in its own way. If cheap sentiment were white sand, you'd be a resort beach.

Harsh.

So I've taken away your shoes to teach you a lesson.

Bitch.

Hey now. 

Why are you here, anyway?

Community service. I missed choir practice again. 

Your lap is comfy!

Get off me, pervert.

Don't have kittens. What's the matter, you don't like bathos?

Why don't you try writing something decent?

When pigs fly.

Oink! (flap flap flap)

Uh...kay, bye Felicia. Weird chick.

(from afar) Write something decent, Steve. 

________

for the Sunday Muse #190.