Tuesday Poem: "so you want to be a writer?" by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

by Charles Bukowski

Faye Dunaway and Charles Bukowski attend an event in November 1987 GETTY IMAGES

For more information about the poet, Charles Bukowski, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/charles-bukowski

Tuesday Poem: "Sorrow Is Not My Name (after Gwendolyn Brooks) by Ross Gay

 

No matter the pull toward brink. No
matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything. Look,
just this morning a vulture
nodded his red, grizzled head at me,
and I looked at him, admiring
the sickle of his beak.
Then the wind kicked up, and,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off.
Just like that. And to boot,
there are, on this planet alone, something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things,
some with names so generous as to kick
the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,
stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks
at the market. Think of that. The long night,
the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.
But look; my niece is running through a field
calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basketball court.
I remember. My color's green. I'm spring.

by Ross Gay

For more information about the poet, Ross Gay, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/ross-gay

Tuesday Poem (Song): "Took the Children Away" by Archie Roach

This story's right, this story's true
I would not tell lies to you
Like the promises they did not keep
And how they fenced us in like sheep
Said to us come take our hand
Sent us off to mission land
Taught us to read, to write and pray
Then they took the children away
Took the children away

The children away
Snatched from their mother's breast
Said this is for the best
Took them away

The welfare and the policeman
Said you've got to understand
We'll give them what you can't give
Teach them how to really live
Teach them how to live they said
Humiliated them instead
Taught them that and taught them this
And others taught them prejudice
You took the children away

The children away
Breaking their mothers heart
Tearing us all apart
Took them away

One dark day on Framingham
Come and didn't give a damn
My mother cried go get their dad
He came running, fighting mad
Mother's tears were falling down
Dad shaped up and stood his ground
He said "You touch my kids and you fight me"
And they took us from our family
Took us away

They took us away
Snatched from our mother's breast
Said this was for the best
Took us away

Told us what to do and say
Told us all the white man's ways
Then they split us up again
And gave us gifts to ease the pain
Sent us off to foster homes
As we grew up we felt alone
'Cause we were acting white
Yet feeling black

One sweet day all the children came back
The children come back
The children come back
Back where their hearts grow strong
Back where they all belong
The children came back
Said the children come back

The children come back
Back where they understand
Back to their mother's land
The children come back

Back to their mother
Back to their father
Back to their sister
Back to their brother
Back to their people
Back to their land
All the children come back
The children come back
The children come back
Yes I came back

by Archie Roach

For more information about the songwriter, Archie Roach, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archie_Roach

Tuesday Poem: "Posture" by Megan Seil aka Dusty Rhymes

Walk tall

Stand upright 

Don't be contrite

Smile more

Chest out

Chin up

Don't look down 

Levitate above the ground

Perform for us

Be on show 

Let us bathe in your womanly glow

But don't harness her

Not that power she holds

The rich maroon reds and gold

They're for us to revel in

Chin up

Chest out

Don't you pout

Stay in shape

Be tall and thin

Not too stout

Speak quietly 

Don't shout

Mellow oooout

Don't embody her fullness

The warmth and the goodness

Her energy

Put your shoulders back

Take that smoulder back

Its unladylike 

Conform for us

Be on form for us

Stroke our egos

Be present 

Don't be unpleasant 

Control yourself

Ignore her

Don't adorn her

Do not mourn her

Keep your eyeline straight

Don't stay up too late

Be respectable

Make pleasantries 

Drink pleasant teas

Not rum

Smile more

Don't be a whore

Wash your mouth out

Don't acknowledge her

Don't trust her knowledge

Go to college 

Get an education 

Be book smart

Be well dressed

And pass the test

Behave

Don't express your rage

Present yourself 

Sit down

Don't frown

Be grateful

You're a woman now.

by Megan Seil aka Dusty Rhymes

And this is what young Ōtautahi poet, Megan Seil, says about herself:

"Growing up rough I found my escape through books and song lyrics and eventually began writing short stories and poetry of my own. I've always kept most of my work to myself, only recently beginning to share relevant pieces via social media and sacred sharing circles. Spoken Word has afforded me the freedom to express my deepest hurts and fears under the guise of "art" and as someone with a naturally rhythmic, repetitive and poetic mind, it allows me to organize the chaos in my head into something slightly more palatable to the general public. My only hope with my work is that people are able to truly see me, and in turn are able to feel more truly seen themselves."

Thank you for sharing your poem with the Tuesday Poem audience, both of them...ha ha. I heard Megan read this poem of hers (shown above) at the Catalyst monthly poetry Open Mic night. If you are an Ōtautahi poet or a poet visiting Ōtautahi  from somewhere in Aotearoa or the world, I urge you to attend. It is a great night for lovers of poetry!

Tuesday Poem: "Song of Myself: 36" by Walt Whitman

 

Stretch’d and still lies the midnight,
Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,
Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquer’d,
The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet,
Near by the corpse of the child that serv’d in the cabin,
The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curl’d whiskers,
The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,
The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty,
Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars,
Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves,
Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,
A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining,
Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,
The hiss of the surgeon’s knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,
Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan,
These so, these irretrievable.

by Walt Whitman

For more information about the poet, Walt Whitman, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/walt-whitman