Write a thousand pages
then burn them all
without ceremony
or sentiment
Read every poem
and novel
and newspaper
you can get your hands on
before the age of 21
then stop completely
and spend the next
decade stealing from
and killing
your influences
Stay far away from the
writer’s retreats
writing groups
and MFA programs
they can only teach you
obedience and
false confidence
with the pen
Go out and allow yourself
to be beaten
with the 2 X 4
known as life
then crawl back in
and scratch out
one single line
before you pass out
Claw at the walls
of your room
until your fingernails
are gone and
the entire colony
of termites
in there stands still
in awe of your
perseverance
Write
Write
Write
Write
Write
Write
Write
Beg the Lord
not for money
or fame
or publication
or women
beg Him
for wonder
a precarious life
decent ink
After you have
done this
start over
If you make it to eighty
you may write
one poem
One
eternal
poem
That will start
and stop
wars
That will make
killers
weep
That will make
cowards
stand
That will make
the dead
shudder
That will make
the living
wake
That will make
Well, you’ve got the idea
Now go
and type
Photo | Candice Quates (her little HK)
_____________________________________
Robert Bruce is one of the most read, linked, loved and reviled poets working on the web. He writes at KNIFE GUN PEN every Monday from Portland, Ore. Get more over at Twitter. If this did something to you or for you, go ahead and spread it around...
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Less than 80, Far Greater than 1
It takes the math
for words to sing
it takes the math
for music
yes.
and the heart
without heart
how flat
touch my heart
play to my head
too sharp, too piercing
bladelike screeching
fall flat, lay down dead.
it’s the math
the spaces
colors dancing
major and minor keys
not music, but feelings
reality
intentionality
hiding the elephant
revealing what’s not really
whispers
lies
truth
in between the thoughts
in between the breaths
in between you and me
I listen
a melody
where none is offered
I watch
a true story
that hasn’t happened
I feel
a voice touching . . .
a voice poetic
refusing the mathematics
. . . that less than 80
can be
far greater than one.
es 5/28/07
These days she lives holstered and loaded, in an antique armoire drawer.
But I don’t have a poem to respond with, wow.
dig deep
then
dig deeper
then
dig deeper
then
keep digging
keep digging
keep digging
one of the next few weekends I’m taking the permit class…
You raise an interesting point my friend.
I have chosen my tools. Bourbon. Guinness. Tempered with the occasinal pot roast for sentimental value. (the aroma alone makes me weep)
Ah yes, and Rage.
Rage at the cursor mocking me form the blank screen.
Rage at the voices that can only be heard through my effort.
Rage at the “haves” who want what’s mine.
Rage at the view of the Hotel Roosevelt from my living room.
Rage at the thought of giving in.
Damn I feel alive.
Yours,
Mantooth
Upon whose breast lies the comfort of home?
Upon whose life bears the resemblance of faith?
Upon whose will does the river flow?
Upon whose conscience does time stop?
Stop for a second, reach deep into your soul and wonder
The river enters no tide, no crashing waves will be its home
Life’s breath echoes and falls, plummets into the darkness
In the breast’s cavity, a decade of dust coats its walls
And in these walls, a gentle heart breaks
A heart that has held the burden of which its denizens know not
A heap of broken memories lie below, settled in their misery
The organ beating in my chest comes to a stop once again
One more lonely piece floats delicately into its place
Scared and trembling it finds its home among the pile
One last glance at where it came from
One last hope that it will return
Robert,
It’s been quite a while. You have persevered in my absence. Respect to you my friend. I enjoyed this poem a lot. You have a distinctive style, I could safely say that this is a Robert Bruce. I envy that. Wrongly so. I should be encouraging. But what do I know?
I’ve had my share of theories on how to write, why to write, when to stop, when to give up. I’ve done the groups, the retreats the MFAs, but you’re right, it’s down to us. We make our choices alone. It’s paramount – it’s basic. As soon as we take heed to impress upon the rest a sense of glory and success, we sabotage our potential.
Some people might ask, so then who are you writing it for if not an audience, a publisher, an awarding body…I say we write for the earth. For the times it was all over. For a woman. A man. For our families. For our love and for our reason. For all the dead masters we’ve sat with for hours. For the fear and the future. For the music, the rhythm the tingles and highs. For us. For us. After all, it is we who ‘are perfect, not the next world’.
Um…wow.
I think any of us who are artists in any sense (Poetry, paint, music, etc.) understand this one. Way to put it out there with a velvet sledge hammer Sir Robert!!
Please continue to practice your demons…
-W
oh, and I bought her a new friend, an eastern bloc that shoots 9mm makarov that fits in my purse.
“….known as life
then crawl back in
and scratch out
one single line”
beautiful
Sometimes
I wonder if
it’s really worth
the effort we put in
to try and seem
clever
…probably not
nevertheless
it’s an amusing
distraction
nice poem
kudos
To write…
Feeling as though worthlessness is she who has found me…
The block of feeling sinks deeper into an endless ocean…
of creative decay.
Yes, to write is to live.
But to live defines my weakness
my misunderstanding
my inadequacy
my wretched mind
my life.
nevertheless!
to write…
..is to live…
…and I shall live.
When you look at me like that I can’t move or breathe.
When I look at you…
I wonder if you will disappoint me…
by not failing me.
When I look at me…
well, I just turn and walk away from both of us.
at some point
though
its not a choice
it was born with you
in you
through you
and you have to let it out.
it’ll eat you up
otherwise.
no, life will eat you up
otherwise.
the art is what saves you.
Type a few words
Then hit delete
Type again
Then close the screen
Get a pad of paper
Scribble
Rip it into shreds
Throw your pen
To the wall
And hope it goes through
Try to get
Some fresh air
Walk it off
Get a cup of coffee
Turn on your iPod
Just forget it
Get mad
Scream
Do the math
Three hours
I’ll be ready
Two hours
I’ll hit send
Thirty minutes
I’ll be dead
Five seconds
I’ll live
Tell God that you
Don’t give a damn
Tell him
That he can shove it
What is inspiration?
A writer’s scam?
Do you need it?
No.
You need a break.
You need a shot
One
Poem
That’s all I need
One
Poem
Then
I can
Breath
Then
I can
Sleep
Again
Do it again.
Rita F. April 11, 2008
[[my teacher can shove it]]
Write a thousand pages, then burn them without thought
Take a thousand breaths, take a million, it means nothing
For in the end, it will end the same
The usual
The monotomous, dull closing scene
We all have our swan song
The question is, does it matter?
Does it matter if you go out with a scream or a whimper?
What do people care for the when, the why , the how?
It can’t make sense.
It doesn’t make sense.
All it makes is money, and whats that for anyhow?
You can go out crying or you can go out standing
You can beg for your life or you can bow your head in acceptance
It doesn’t matter
An easy death?
A good death?
An acceptable death?
You either burn alive or rot in the ground
What would you prefer? Take door A or door b
They both lead to the same place anyway.
It’s over
It’s pointless
So what do we do?
We can live life to the full or we can
Give up right now or we can
Pretend we don’t give a damn or we can
Dream.
Hope.
Wonder.
(just words don’t matter)
What if?
What if there is more?
More what?
More food more water more stop.
Enough.
No point wondering, hoping, dreaming, arguing.
If one day it’s true, it’s true
If one day ther’s more, there’s more
But for now
We should
Just
Dream
And wait until the day when we
Can
Finally
Stand.
okay. wow. one of the best i’ve found online ever.
killing me-With every kiss it kills you
With every touch you cry
With every it fells like pins and needles
in the end it is not you who dies
painfully,slowly, and torching
I die in your place
you ripped out my sole
you killed me
you killed me with a kiss
you killed me with a touch
you killed me with your words
I thought you loved me
I thought i loved you
in the end i am dead
you live killing
as you killed me inside.
i hope you liked it
if u love for beauty
do not love me
love the sun
it has golden hair
if u love for youth
do not love me
love the spring
that is young every year
if you love for sweetness
do not love me
love your smile
that’s sweet everytime
if you love for treasure
do not love me
love the little mermaid
it has many bright pearls
if you love for love
oh yes…love me
be my sweet love
put me on like a glove
i’ll always love you
i just discovered here…am a young poet