In my pursuit to revisit an anthology of poetry in the mornings, I read some scribbles that made me laugh. “- confessional poet – drown in abyss of self-pity”
And so I went on to read an excert from John Berryman’s The Dream Songs. It’s a good picker-upper for the start of any Portland day.
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover y mther told me as a boy
(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have noInner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag
Excerpt from The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry. After a quick search, I see they have another, newer, anthology with contemporary artists as well. And we all know my birthday is creeping up…
