Robert Roper begins a recent piece in obit with a grim truth - poets die young. Many poets die young. “They do, you know – younger than most other people, and significantly younger than other writers (novelists, playwrights, journalists).” HMMMMM. Should I be worried? Deeper in the article, Roper continues – “Contemporary psychologists have unearthed strong associations between poetry and introspection, between introspection and depression, and between depression and self-destructiveness. Not all poets are depressives, but there is a statistical connection. If that child of yours is writing a poem at this moment, go into his bedroom right now and stop him! Go on, don’t fool around! He’ll thank you for it later. Talk up the advantages of biochemistry, or the law. Steer him toward the light.”
I admit, when I was a kid, I wrote some dark stuff – pre-adolescent angst. I remember a piece in which I compare myself to a candle, a candle that heft a bright flame, yet a poem that’s being destroyed by warmth, the light it must bear. Finally – nothing but darkness. It was titled The Wax Soldier of Solitude. It was terrible, terrible stuff. Depressing? YES!!! Thankfully, I’m on the verge of 41-years-of-age. I’m still writing and I’m happy. Maybe that’s why I’ve yet to hit the big, big time. Damn joy!!
Roper goes on to discuss Keats, Poe, and Thomas – three poets who bit the bullet early. Poor guys. Imagine the words we’d possess today if they all breathed a bit more.
Here’s a link to the article discussed above: http://www.obit-mag.com/articles/poets-die-young-fears-that-i-may-cease-to-be-
That’s right. The web slinger is coming to the Great White Way. Yup - Spidey is going to starch his tights, learn a few lyrics, and crawl onto a Broadway stage. Now, I’m a huge comic book fan, but Spiderman on Broadway doesn’t sit well with me. I feel, right or wrong, that comic book superheroes may cheapen Broadway. It’s like ordering a Big-Mac at a fine French restaurant, putting down Shakespeare for a Harlequin Romance, or spreading low-fat mayonnaise when the a jar of the real stuff sits in the fridge. At least Bono is providing the music and lyrics. Can’t be all bad.




A friend recently made me aware of publication she thought was “right up my alley.” There is to be an anthology of poetry centered on superheroes: Superman, Batman, the Flash, etc. The anthology’s web site reads “Superman. Batman. Wonder Woman. Spiderman. Each of these characters is an American superhero, born out of such ideals and idiosyncrasies as magic, the supernatural, the marginalized, and the desire to rise above circumstance and not only ‘fit in,’ but become a role model of sorts. America has long been fascinated with the expression of super-individuality—as if we can all be larger than life. Our obsession with the “invincible self” manifests itself in the form of superheroes. This anthology is meant to illuminate—through poetry—the nuances of such a relationship with self and the “large” individual.”
The premise of Krystal’s essay is that many writers fail to represent themselves well when asked to speak. Rather than wielding the language command, the intellectual capacity their pens endow them with, writers often speak about as well as a pre-adolescent boy delivering a speech to his peers about the mating habits of a Tanzanian hippopotamus.
What do you mean?
November 10, 2009 by sthomassummers
Please, help me out here. What do you think?
Here’s a link to the article mentioned above: http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/jonathanjonesblog/2009/oct/29/art-meaning-bob-dylan
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