Friday, September 14, 2018
I know poetry. I suffered through too many creative writing classes during my youth, and quickly figured out academic poetry is too false and easy: Where are the powerful voices: Keats, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Dylan Thomas, William Carlos Williams, etc.
You can scan and rhyme until the sun hides its face in shame, and darkness surrounds you forever, but without an authentic voice you might as well throw away your pen (or computer). This little rant is the result of discovering how the academic world continues to reward those poets with too many degrees (and very little talent) - and ignores the powerful voices that are out there both in book form and online:
Bukowski (just a drunken bum), Walt Curtis (another drunken bum), Don Kloss, David Elsey, Jon Varga, Sherry Asbury, Virginia Davis, James H. Duncan, Dylan Mitchell (yes, I dare to include myself because I know I ONCE had an authentic voice. However, it was gradually silenced by the academic world which only allows deluded members of quite expensive "workshops" to be called a poet).
Oh, and my best poems are hidden in newspapers, zines, and my private journals which will most likely be chucked down the garbage chute when I finally escape from this crazy money hungry world. Sadly, This is the fate of some of our most gifted poets.
Appreciate the great ones while you can! Don't let the academic world (and its many bitter critics) tell you what to read: Let your heart and mind lead you in the right direction. Trust me, you won't regret it:
Jon Varga, Don Kloss, David Elsey, Walt Curtis, Sherry Asbury, Virginia Davis, James H. Duncan, E. D. Ridgell, Dylan Mitchell (saved myself for last). If you like real poetry, these are the poets to seek out and discover what the meaning of life (and death's) really all about. Just do a quick Google search. It's as simple (and profound) as that.
Oh, and stay away from the pretentious University presses: That's where the worst poetry is found. And they charge an arm and a leg big time - just adding more insult to injury. Don't let them play you for a fool.
Poem Copyright 1934 by William Carlos Williams
Rant Copyright 2018 by Dylan Mitchell
Sunday, September 9, 2018
I first heard this song on the radio in 1975. It totally reminded me of how my father (if you can call him that) treated me all of my life: I only actually got to meet him around ten times. He never paid child support. And my last "meeting" with him was during my late teens in which he took me to a bunch of bars and pool halls (where he liked to hustle people for money), and had no problem at all telling me my new shoes and long hair made me look like a faggot. Nice.
I decided right then and there that I no longer wanted to try and get to know this monstrosity of a man that had no business bringing children into this world ( because he was so good looking, he forever used women as a meal ticket). He couldn't care less about any of the many children he brought into this world.
Much later, I was astonished to receive a phone call from the latest woman he was involved with asking me to come and live with them to help take care of my dying father. I was polite to the woman, but when my "father" picked up the phone, I told him if he really wanted to know my feelings on the subject - then listen to this great Harry Chapin song. He didn't even know who Harry Chapin was. That speaks volumes alone. (My so-called father was a musician).
P.S. BTW, I am NOT saying Harry Chapin was related to me in any way. I am merely saying that his great song reminded me of my abusive relationship with my own father big time. Harry Chapin was a true artist. My father was a total bastard.
Music Copyright 1974 by Harry Chapin