Thurston Howell, of Gilligan's Island‘On Reading Ginsburg’s “Howl”’ and Other Poetry by Gregory Spicer The Society January 20, 2018 Beauty, Culture, Humor, Poetry 13 Comments On Reading Ginsburg’s “Howl” Once, I possessed an open mind, Which I assure you was my own. I used it to read Ginsberg’s “Howl” Well, I don’t wish to be unkind But those words seemed randomly sown. My first reaction was a scowl. So I tried a second reading. His words looked clipped and pasted, Mashed to the page with cruel force. Was he desperate? Was he bleeding Or perhaps just strangely wasted By some bizarre urban remorse? Was there a narrative to track, Or should I have even bothered to try? Words like photos pinned up on a board And in between them all is black. Could I, from this, some deep meaning pry? Was there something I ignored? I thought it some chaotic list, From a generation not so great, Of a world’s load of flaws. His knowledge of words can’t be dismissed And it’s not a poem I hate For the picture that it draws. But frankly, the Howell to be well versed in Is the rich one they call… Thurston. R.I.P. Cassini Oh stalwart vessel! Did siren ring song Snare you like an Odyssean sailor? They say your conversion did not take long From probe into vaporized con trailer. Armchair trailblazers now salute you And your glancing into the vast unknown. Now you mix with the Saturnian dew Or perhaps through hexagonal storms are blown. Like bold chest clutching stage deaths of yore You bravely gave yourself to the ages All to make room for some alien spore Instead of Earth borne microbial rages. You brought us the music of the spheres Now forever etched on midnight sonneteers! The Harvest Set not too quickly oh dangling moon For we need effect of your soothing beams. Treat the raging apes to some subtle tune That lulls them into tranquilizing dreams. With backlit nimbus set care adrift To be marooned on some distant shore Or lodge it tightly in some comet’s rift That it might not be found… forevermore. Gild with ease the spheres where music plays. Such overtures are all too lacking At our clumsy Earthbound soirees Where good taste has, of late, been slacking. Oh host that ennead, before you sink, Of every muse that makes mankind think… Far beyond this place of rude distraction To ponder some Hesperidean satisfaction. Struck thus and with cares neatly dispatched A mind may, at last, find peace securely latched. A sonneteer who lives in Sifton, Washington, Gregory Spicer was born in Portland, Oregon in 1963 and graduated from Clark College In Vancouver, Washington in 1989. NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to email@example.com. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 13 Responses Gkdoodles January 20, 2018 Brilliant! Reply Neal January 20, 2018 the beat poets were fictive guys whose style came across as cutting edge until the rest of the muggles caught up with them. They helped me understand my grandparents’ use of the word “common.” Reply Amy Foreman January 20, 2018 I agree, Neal. Good, analytical poetry, Gregory! Reply Gregory Spicer January 20, 2018 Thanks Amy, I’m glad you liked it! James A. Tweedie January 20, 2018 Gregory, What a great opening couplet: “Once, I possessed an open mind, Which I assure you was my own.” This begs the question as to whether, at some point along our earthly pilgrimage, we become so burdened with cultural, intellectual, and other experiential baggage that we cease to be “open minded” in the same way we were before. I don’t have an answer, but I suspect that it is one of those yes and no conundrums. The only thing that has not changed in my life is, curiously enough, Bob Denver. He will always be the original “Howl” himself, Maynard G. Krebs. Reply Gregory Spicer January 21, 2018 An Interesting observation James. Most of the feedback I get is about the surprise ending. Truthfully, I had not been exposed to much “beat” stuff outside of “So I Married An Axe Murderer” so I think I was about as open minded as any of us ever is when I read Howl for the first time a few years ago. After a couple of readings my T.V. generation brain kept going back to Jim Backus. As for Krebs, I always loved his reaction whenever someone within earshot mentioned the word “work”. Reply James Sale January 21, 2018 Yes, I agree. And in 50 years’ time Howl will be so inconsequential we won’t even feel the need to write a poem about it! Well done. Reply "Weird" Ace Blues January 21, 2018 So much of what Mr. Spicer has to say about Ginsberg’s “Howl” is right on target. Sadly, I, too, have to admit I plowed through the Beats. American S***hole by “Weird” Ace Blues “ως ανδρων γενεη η μεν φύει η δ’ απολήγει.” —Homer in the Iliad, Book VI, line 149 “So of men, one generation arises, another passes away.” —translation, “Crude” Abe Lewis I saw the souls of one more generation wrecked by madness, starving, naked and hysterical, slide down the streets and roads with energy unchecked in search of angry fixes, starry-eyed and dull, who smoked beneath polluted skies all kinds of things, while looking out across the tops of urban sprawl, their brains hallucinating round in fiery rings illuminating nothing but their own lost hells, academies condemned in their imaginings, while taking over universities for spells, destroying poetry with fresh obscenities by hanging body parts up out to ring, like bells, insisting on a new set of insanities enroute to park, to pad, to bar, on foot or train, in car or bus, through wild, ungodly vanities, in taxi or on subway, that they chased in vain to Saint John of the Cross, in search of holy love, but couched in Zen, to rushing rants undone, insane. What in the swirling World’s whirl were they thinking of? unhappiness in passive lives gone chemical, nuclear, biological, derivative? ideas ill thought out, crazed and polemical? unnerved by loneliness, a lack of discipline, but rooted in a hole abscessed and cynical, evisceral, invisible, on insulin? to recreate in syntax and in measure what they had already burst with nitroglycerine? confessing to the rhythm of the shaking butt, allowed to say aloud what could be left unsaid, that death had not obliterated yet—th’ aching gut? Reply Evan January 22, 2018 A brilliant poem, Ace, still very relevant for our times. Reply Michael Dashiell January 22, 2018 I’ve similar impressions of Howl. Its main claim to fame was for its pornography and obscenity value. Reply James Sale January 23, 2018 Yes, can we not read Ginsburg’s Howl, please! Reply "Weird" Ace Blues January 26, 2018 Mr. Spicer’s “R. I. P. Cassini” shows his ability, with humour, to bring traditional thoughts up to date. As Mr. Turner has done in “Apocalypse,” and others as well, Mr. Spicer in his work is attempting to “domesticate burgeoning new vocabularies.” As to Mr. Sale’s desire that we not read Ginsberg, I agree, though I would argue we could do so sparingly, and with an extremely critical mind; for we must not put our heads in the sand, like the myth about ostriches; for if the ostriches actually did that, they would die of asphyxiation. Actually the myth possibly comes from the fact that ostriches do dig shallow holes in the ground for their nests. Anyway, if I remember correctly Mr. Sale took on Michael Schmidt’s “Lives of the Poets,” an ambitious 800+ page book with more pages devoted to Ezra Pound than Shakespeare, and which was filled with American nihilists. I think he has a great “stomach” for the less than satisfying, which reminds me of the surreal Postmodernist poem by Louis Simpson, succinctly demonstrating that required strength (a key word from a Mr. Sale essay). American Poetry Whatever it is, it must have A stomach that can digest Rubber, coal, uranium, moons, poems. Like the shark it contains a shoe. It must swim for miles through the desert Uttering cries that are almost human. Finally, in a larger sense, I would say that in all fields of human endeavour, jewels of truth and goodness are rare, and one must plow through vast tracts to find them. Reply Gregory Spicer January 28, 2018 Thanks for the feedback on “R.I.P. Cassini” Mr. Blues. You are extraordinarily perceptive with what I am doing there. I love the intrinsic glory of classical poetic diction (and reason enough to procure old dictionaries) and I want to see it cheerfully recombined with more up to date sentiments so that the glory might be reborn. I see the desire for this here at the SCP and elsewhere. You are also clearly perceptive regarding criticism. Criticism is a kind of dissection and so a potentially traumatic process but one we must put ourselves through in order to avoid future evils, particularly, sand traps for my bird brain. One thing I think critical to the success of classical poetry is a sense of wholesome theatricality a la Sideshow Mel on “The Simpsons” who, in the one episode, had been a Shakespearean stage actor. I wonder what people might think when they realize that The Bard’s well developed sense of glory would travel through the centuries on the flimsy brains of actors and T.V. comedy writers to lodge itself within my own inconstant thoughts. Both he (Mel) and the “Master Thespian” character on those old Saturday Night Live Sketches are rewarding examples of good theatricality specifically because they are not maudlin. If we mire ourselves too much in the fading embers of nostalgia we risk being burned by the aesthetic sin of banality, eh? 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