Mayakovsky

Stumbled upon Frank O'Hara and thought, "Hoom. This guy loves like everything and nothing in his works." A writer and a curator (cool!), his tone is both casual and spontaneous, which I think very few poets have mastered. Us, writers, we take life and a lot of things (even the small stuff) seriously to a fault. It's hard to find works that simply simplify and yet unfailingly move still.

Been reading a lot --- Yeats, the guy mentioned above, some local bloggers/poets --- and just started doodling some (this is what I call my imitation of art; I don't think I'm any good but I've managed to produce decent sumthin' sumthins').

I have a theory --- If you really are good at what you do (writing, et.al), you wouldn't need all the shit that comes with life and love to produce something decent. Nor do you have to keep fucking things up on purpose to experience exquisite sorrow as fuel to regurgitate a few heartfelt verses. Here's a thought: Just keep doing what you do.

So, in the spirit of self-preservation and enjoying every millisecond of my Days Have Finally Gotten Better With You Know Who You Are aka V (See subtlety isn't one of my strong points. #SMH), I will keep writing, churning out prose, poetry, prosaic on various topics regardless of how I'm feeling at the moment. Understand: Writing is hugely personal and you guessed it, meanings are in people. Also, I will keep doodling and will undertake that something ambitious soon and by that I mean something that's 24x30 and will find itself vulnerable to the world in a semi-corner office.

In the meantime, enjoy Mayakovsky ---

1

My heart’s aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I’m turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.

I embrace a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

3

That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest

oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks

what a funny place to rupture!

and now it is raining on the ailanthus

as I step out onto the window ledge

the tracks below me are smoky and

glistening with a passion for running

I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

Frank O’Hara, “Mayakovsky” from Meditations in an Emergency.