This blog posting is an attempt to follow Hemingway’s advice (even though he probably put it out there when he was drunk) –although, to be honest, I don’t know if I’ll have time to get around to the second part of his aphorism (added points, props, and/or gropes for me for using the term aphorism!).
Drinks…I’ve had a few.
Whooo Hooo!
See how easily I fired a rhyme right off the bat without even half-trying? Sometimes I think I could be this generation’s limerick king. God knows I’ve tried to incorporate rhyme, rhythm and structure in a number of my poems. Editors seem to think it’s out of date to write poems with a definite structure or rhyme scheme (I hear Robert Frost rolling over in his grave about now). Of course, there’s always the possibility they simply think my poetry sucks. If that’s the case, then…go figure.
Apparently, it’s better to simply throw out lines of writing which may (but probably not) fuse itself into a coherent message. Or, at least, if the message isn’t incoherent, it engages your mind to the point where you’re having brain cramps --if not total seizures. That’s when, as a literary type, you have to pretend there is a VERY deep meaning in the poem that you can discern even though no one else can.
For example:
New Poem
I look out on the meadow,
And see,
Nothing.
Laughing because you’ve missed,
The pot-o-gold.
While unicorns laugh,
And the midget jots down notes,
So the tyrannosaurus can’t see.
You soon will be,
A blur on route 66.
It’s a mixture of reality,
And fantasy.
Yet only you can,
Know,
Where fun, death, hatred,
And love,
Intersect.
--William Martin
Who knows? That could easily be my most praised poem yet. All it takes is for the right people to stare down their noses, read it at just the right time, and discover its meaning. (Shhhh. Just between you and me it’s a crap-load of nonsense. I just spewed it out there. It took me all of two minutes.)
Drinks…I’ve had a couple of more.
Why write? Well, in all honesty, fucked if I know. Sometimes I think if I didn’t write another word in my life, no one would be the wiser. Other times I think I don't want to be on my death bed thinking, “Hey, asshole! There was a lot you could have put out there that you never did.”
Anyway, I’ll keep putting my drivel out there…in poems, short stories, essays, blogs, and novels. I’ll feel better just for exposing myself a bit more (okay, if that doesn’t sound Freudian and/or pervy, nothing will) and hope there are a few who will understand.
Let me know if you’re one of those. Sometimes I think there are fewer and fewer of us in this world.
By the way: all crap I’ve thrown out here on this blog is copyright to whoever would feel comfortable repeating it.
It’s just the way I roll.
Regrets? Well, I’m going to have another few.
And a couple more drinks.
It could be that Hemingway guy was onto something.
Gonna move from the beer to the Irish whiskey now.
And I hope, as always, you all will be well.
--William Martin
Drinks…I’ve had a few.
Whooo Hooo!
See how easily I fired a rhyme right off the bat without even half-trying? Sometimes I think I could be this generation’s limerick king. God knows I’ve tried to incorporate rhyme, rhythm and structure in a number of my poems. Editors seem to think it’s out of date to write poems with a definite structure or rhyme scheme (I hear Robert Frost rolling over in his grave about now). Of course, there’s always the possibility they simply think my poetry sucks. If that’s the case, then…go figure.
Apparently, it’s better to simply throw out lines of writing which may (but probably not) fuse itself into a coherent message. Or, at least, if the message isn’t incoherent, it engages your mind to the point where you’re having brain cramps --if not total seizures. That’s when, as a literary type, you have to pretend there is a VERY deep meaning in the poem that you can discern even though no one else can.
For example:
New Poem
I look out on the meadow,
And see,
Nothing.
Laughing because you’ve missed,
The pot-o-gold.
While unicorns laugh,
And the midget jots down notes,
So the tyrannosaurus can’t see.
You soon will be,
A blur on route 66.
It’s a mixture of reality,
And fantasy.
Yet only you can,
Know,
Where fun, death, hatred,
And love,
Intersect.
--William Martin
Who knows? That could easily be my most praised poem yet. All it takes is for the right people to stare down their noses, read it at just the right time, and discover its meaning. (Shhhh. Just between you and me it’s a crap-load of nonsense. I just spewed it out there. It took me all of two minutes.)
Drinks…I’ve had a couple of more.
Why write? Well, in all honesty, fucked if I know. Sometimes I think if I didn’t write another word in my life, no one would be the wiser. Other times I think I don't want to be on my death bed thinking, “Hey, asshole! There was a lot you could have put out there that you never did.”
Anyway, I’ll keep putting my drivel out there…in poems, short stories, essays, blogs, and novels. I’ll feel better just for exposing myself a bit more (okay, if that doesn’t sound Freudian and/or pervy, nothing will) and hope there are a few who will understand.
Let me know if you’re one of those. Sometimes I think there are fewer and fewer of us in this world.
By the way: all crap I’ve thrown out here on this blog is copyright to whoever would feel comfortable repeating it.
It’s just the way I roll.
Regrets? Well, I’m going to have another few.
And a couple more drinks.
It could be that Hemingway guy was onto something.
Gonna move from the beer to the Irish whiskey now.
And I hope, as always, you all will be well.
--William Martin
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