Get Some Cul-cha in You


You don’t just get superficial trash or otters on this blog. You get a smorgasboard of crazy shit. And to prove it, here’s some other stuff. Apologies if you were hoping for more on teenage novels or shoes or famous people’s private parts. Sometimes I like to ramble on about other stuff I like. *if you’re bored already, just go to the last video at the end. You won’t regret it.

In this instance, Poetry. Let’s face it, most poetry is very very bad. Especially rhyming poetry. Poetry was the kind of thing you were forced to do in Primary School. Write 10 lines about a river or your mum or something. Poetry is like spelling – lots of people think they are good at it when clearly, they are not. Bad poetry is like food poisoning. And vanity publishers of volumes of poetry give the whole thing a bad name.

It’s a shame that all the good poets are mostly dead. And that writing “poet” as your occupation on your passport nowadays makes you either a liar, a joke, or the Poet Laureate.

However I find, particularly when I’m sad, that poetry fits my mood more perfectly than some 80s sentimental ballad or drinking yourself into a stupor and crying on a stranger’s lap in a bar about where it all went wrong (we’ve all been there – haven’t we?. I’ll assume yes)

So anyway, I tried to find the brilliant Fiona Shaw’s full length version of TS Eliot’s The Wasteland, which is one of the best pieces of literature ever written (I’m more of a fan of The Lovesong of Alfred J Prufrock myself, but The Wasteland is still ACE). I couldn’t find it. So instead I’m posting an excerpt that she reads. You may remember her from such performances as King Richard II and Harry Potter.

I’m also a bit of an ee cummings fan. He’s a kooky little poet but he hits the bloody nail on the head. I stumbled across this little montage of his beutiful poem I Carry Your Heart With Me. It’s actually very cheesy, so I’ve printed the poem below. Just in case you think I’m the kind of person who cries when they watch Steel Magnolias (I’m not. I may be dead inside)

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
                                  i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is youhere is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

 

And just to round off this cultural merry-go-round, here’s Harry Dean Stanton reading Charles Bukowski’s poem Bluebird. If you like sex, booze and straight talking, you’ll love this guy. Again, it’s a shame he’s dead. I’ve saved the best til last.

Bluebird
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

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About ohhellwhatthehell

I like gin, mittens and otters, not necessarily in that order. Here's some stuff I felt like writing down when I'm not chained to a desk writing other things for a living. Please use caution when using this site; there may be sweary words, cute animals and general bullshit. Don't say I didn't fucking warn you.
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2 Responses to Get Some Cul-cha in You

  1. Jake says:

    Those poems are gay, except the bluebird one, which was excellent.

    I never usually read blogs as i have no interest in what 99.99% of humans say, dont know what made me take a look at yours, glad i did, the bluebird poem has added to my life 🙂

    Cheers

    • Why thank you Jacob. As you know, I did spend four years studying gay poems, so putting a couple of them up here was inevitable. I’m off to pour some whisky on my bluebird. Swing by again soon. Sometimes I use sweary-words x

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