Art,

I agree. Writing of something that had great personal meaning is an important motivator. Anticipating or expecting particular responses is in the realm of the soothsayer and alchemist.

a recurring dream ...
`
the same nightmare-
stripped of his Ph.D.
for failing gym

I can smell the methyls, Arthur!
Myrrh for the lemurs,
rhythm for the moths!

Would Deluty's nose look more sincere
on a antelope? Once upon a time I tried to
play basketball with one of his poems
and it was like
dribbling a
lump
of
dough.

alsoknowas
I agree . . .
`
evoking smiles
a Princeton bumper sticker
on his pickup truck
`
Be jolly anyway
`
La Jolla bistro. . .
Botoxed grandmothers
in halter tops
`

demented editor at UCLA
`
demented editor
smiles, introduces himself
to his CEO @ Salon
`
library entrance . . .
professors and their students
lighting cigars
`
'Back in my day' . . .
old teacher reminisces
amidst yawns, groans
`
smile .. .
`
vegan editor
(respect-smiles)
feeling guilty while
eating animal crackers
`
after the car
wash
drying off his daughter
with a leaf blower
`
Tuesday afternoon
strangers on the subway
sleeping together
`
huh?
`
behave
okay
we try

Art, maybe the reason the recipients of your poetry aren't responding is because they don't understand them and are either embarrassed to say so or afraid of hurting your feelings. That would be my guess.

Lezlie

Jacob Freeze . . .
No hurt his feelings
Maybe it was too cold
`
Thanks for comments . . .
`
Post Valentines Day
saints and sinners atoning
at the health club
`

L- great insight . . .
`
after rejections
intrepid farmer
smiles, looks forward
`
dribbles.

You 'felt' something, 'seen' something, or 'imagined' something, 'heard' something, 'remembered' something, or 'imagined' something. Those things are the essence of real poetry and why we love you here at the Open Salon.

Art, I don't like critiquing poetry. At all. Either I like it or I don't. I am not the right person to ask, I am sorry.
I believe you are quoting in this piece above but in reading the comments people think you are the author of above? Confused.
I need to go sit in the PU.

This was brilliant Art. Thank you

Oh goodness gracious, the intrepid farmer is again under the spell of the mighty Deluty.
Good. For herein,
in this odd blog, this blog of a
Fleshified Paradigm,
Art james,
All one needs to know of writing and OS is magnificently laid out as if upon a coroner’s table:
The I, the Great Center That is Everywhere & Nowhere,
“has
'felt' something,
'seen' something,
or 'imagined' something
'heard' something,
'remembered'
something,
or 'imagined'”

(yes but how is it justified to be some kinda Art?)
It was`
something
(a)
that was
meaningful to me;
(b)
that I was able to express
in
(what I hoped was)
some novel of interest way;
and,
more importantly,

(c)
that I wanted to share with
others.
Making a connection,
evoking a smile,
relieving a
burden, touching a heart” etc etc.


This is the work of the Logos in the Phantasmic Theater of the Flesh.
The absurd hairless ape makes a Culture, and then
Makes it mean something…

“mean”

I mean to raise consciousness to the very heights of Possibility, myself.
Deluty does too.

But there is a horrifying counterreaction to such Activity.

Editors, Redactors.

I f Wendell Berry, The Dainty Deluty, and the Intrepid Bearded Art James had a Party, then I would install spy-cams and recording devices, and hire cute short-skirted former nuns to transcribe wisdom shared over Wine of finest Vintage.

I a spy on the Wall of an Art James universe, I.

if girls ran the world, then us guys would finally be
able to get a good night's sleep,
relieved of the burden
of Doing and Making
and
Retrieving
the lost wisdom of the Ages, \
like Whitehead,
whom I love as a brother.
(similar to 'AJ's' Deluty devotion, ha)
"In its solitariness the spirit asks,
What, in the way of value,
is the attainment of life?
And it can find no such value
till it has merged its individual claim
with that of the objective universe.
Religion is world-loyalty."
Religion in the Making (February 1926) an whitehead.


we gotta dig these fellas and gals with wisdom
out of their crumbling graves,
lazurus/like, sort of,
and make
the Word
the Logos, the freeflowing exchange of mercurial memes
and memories of great Beauty
available
at the 7-11.

Just write because it's what you were born to do and don't worry about the rest of it.

Well said, Art. I used to write a lot of poetry, but haven't written a poem in over a year. I find people often don't respond because (a) they don't understand it, (b) they don't like it and don't want to tell me or (c) they think it's something too personal to comment upon. On the other hand, I have been in a few poetry workshops with excellent, established poets. In one class, a woman viciously tore my work apart and said she was offended by it and that she thought I deliberately wrote in such a way so as not to connect with other people. 'nuff said. Not sure if this helps or is meaningful to you. Best, E

Like Rita I took these to be quotes from Deluty's book.
Art,
Your own words may be stream of consciousness, or
free association, whatever those things might be but
never dull. That & if I look hard enough I know I'll find
something familiar in a different light, which is all I for one
can ask to find, anywhere, & here it's in abundance. Some
one asked Dylan didn't they, what his songs were about,
& he said some, believe it or not, were about ten minutes
long ~ or words to that effect ~ I think the same applies to
an Art James comment. I've seen them run to twenty lines ;-)

All I can add to this conversation, Art, is that whenever I receive an Art James comment on a blog I have written, I feel like I've really accomplished something. I love poetry, but feel it is so far above my abilities that I rarely comment on it. I just know what I like when I read it... and I like yours. A lot.
~R~

This kim gamble fella an interesting wordsmith:
He is onto Art James, indeed! He has his number…
“Your own words may be stream of consciousness, or
free association, whatever those things might be but
never dull. “
(there was one comment that was dull, only one.
It had to do with, uh, argyle socks & kale….i was distracted
By my platonic galpals’ miseries at the moment I read it, so it might be my fault.)

Here is where kim gets to the pith of the Thing:


“ I'll find
something familiar in a different light,
which is all I for one
can ask to find, anywhere,
& here it's in abundance. “

Much agreed. Then, on to the famous Dylan quote.
Dumb reporters askin him, whatcher songs about, you punk?
He was mightily fortified, but not by Elderberry wine…no doubt mary jane, cannabis,
Which he introduced thos e Beatles to, is the rumor.

He said, giggly, under abundant hair, a hip prophet , a silly head:
‘uh, ha, yeah..well, some of them are, um..5 minutes, some six minutes, some, heh, 11 minutes’


Silly hipster.

Now he an ancient old man, who claims to have ‘the blood of the land’ in his voice.
I agree.

I am so f-ing agreeable today.

Kerry is ok. He is hard to read, but sincere.
Maybe. I dunno. I figger :everyone=sincere.
I an ingénue!ha

Gonna BUMP u to fame, art james.
So f-ing intense, this world.
Loud noises, men punching walls,
Disagreeable tongues to women , some men.
They often cut out tongues in the Ancient World,
And eyes, too…

I do NOT endorse this Savagery.

Some say, art james is a wonder.
Some say, hey, he is old and bearded & in our Head.
Some say, he is addicted to kale.
Some say, I hope, that he is a precious kinda pearl-like thing,
In an oyster
Living deepest in the ocean.

Some say he is silly. I am one of these. Haw.

La Jolla bistro. . .
Botoxed grandmothers
in halter tops
`

demented editor at UCLA

(keep the motor runnin' Art, methinks winter ain't over yet!)

Saludos Señor Poeta!

Are you some long lost relative of mine? I also prefer criticism, but receive positive feedback, even when I know it could be better. Though, I do have a poet friend who I confide in when I need or want help. What I write is typically personal, so don't often share it, unless I feel it's very well-written and I'm proud of it.

BLESS YOU FOR THIS r.

Good to see daisy jane back in the 99% ~ yes, & the same could be said about all of us who paid to see The Tree of Life, avoiding even eye-contact afterwards.
Pity me I'm off to see a Picasso show today ( got to take the Manly Ferry then walk through the damn Botanical Gardens to get there;-) ... but I go armed to the teeth with unconditional love ~ easy enough now nearly 40 years after he died ... not so easy when I was 19, maybe.

Who knows what, in a lifetime ?
Thanks for re-arranging my lines, James.
Let's bump this man to the moon while it's a handyful &
pulling the tides in our minds & we don't forget.

"I wanted to share with

others. Making a connection,

evoking a smile, relieving a

burden, touching a heart,

promoting greater awareness,

casting the familiar in a new light-"

Everytime you grace my blog you accomplish that mission. I'm sort of speechless and wordless, lately, so this genuine nonsense may suffice-- xoooxartjamesisprecious

Glad you're not sitting in the P.U. cab.

Art is Da Man, his post loads up faster than Kerry L's!! And I'm glad!!!

:D

Art, I have enjoyed getting to know you through your writing. I've noticed your wry wisdom buried under the kale more than once and, like the others, really appreciate when you share it in a comment on my blog. BTW, I will not be a critic as I don't have the degree of knowledge necessary for that; I will be an appreciative person along for the ride.

ha. there u are, gentle deluty/berry addict.
up against kerry, right under him
in that everpresent FEED.
i wanna make a movie
with you
as both
deluty and
(in a wighat)
also berry.

there would be romance. and kale, and
a party that would shake the foundations of
the firmament..

"“We clasp the hands of those that go before us, And the hands of those who come after us. We enter the little circle of each other's arms And the larger circle of lovers, Whose hands are joined in a dance, And the larger circle of all creatures, Passing in and out of life, Who move also in a dance, To a music so subtle and vast that no ear hears it Except in fragments”
Wendell Berry quote

i remember the gouda
the Arthur
your comments
and from them i transfixed
got lost
wondered
learned
style and circumstance
from a mustard seed
to a photobobo
finding criticism in
shutter speeds
lighting
and balance of white
and life as it comes
looking
for what we plant
till
and harvest
all farmers in the moonlight

chuck put it more precisely than i, who am fat.phat?
"the Arthur
your comments
and from them i transfixed
got lost
wondered
learned
style and circumstance"

i vouch for chuck. he in same town as i, i think.
what town that may be, i dunno.
Bump art james' phat farmer ass, haw!behave, u!

i hope art gettin phat off the land.
the kale crop? not as good as the mustard or the
marijuana,
this yr...haw.
tease/
?

who, me? you?
i wish i could punch :post this comment.
i shall.
gnite and sleep tight.
and get up early and harvest..?

Oh Art....fuck 'em
I think making a connection, and just plain giving those ideas voice is why we all write. You are heard here. Fuck big salon.

Here's a little something from a ubiquitous shrub or maybe
(considered by some) a weed that is scattered across North America and beyond.

You have inspired me to put thought and feeling into my comments and I am certainly blessed when you leave your gift at my blog's door. I would say those who do not respond lack the understanding and it is truly their loss. You Know Who ... no poision sumac, only scarlett sumac.

I'm sorry.

I don't have a poetic mind and I stand before your poetry and everyone's poetry feeling inadequate. It's like presuming to critique a musician or any other kind of artist - I have no idea how any of this is done and much of it is way over my head.

Sad and lonely sometimes, but often it's gotta be a case of art for Art's sake (or Art for art's sake, or Art for Art's sake, or art for art's sake or...)

I just like your poetic comments. They are imagic enough, but accessible enough, that I can read them as conversation in poetry. Your poetic comments make me relax. I tend to tense when I see poetry on a page, because so much of it is bad. I'm not afraid of critiquing poetry, I'd just rather it was either someone who was dead or who I knew had a thick skin.

I love this:

"the same nightmare-
stripped of his Ph.D.
for failing gym"

I don't know who it's about, but I know that person.

I read the comments you leave on anyone's page and enjoy them. When you leave one for me, it's special. It's like sitting around having a conversation about life and that conversation fractures into glittering fragments that shower down on the page. I can see myself, my writing, through a lens that highlights and spotlights, and I know that you look closely and see clearly. At the same time, you share a lot of personal history and feelings in that conversation. You make a connection in that moment and couple your own story in clear but glancing phrases to mine. We all do that to an extent when we comment thoughtfully, you just do it exceptionally well.

I guess that's what I think good poetry is. It's communication, content, meaning, in whatever format you like where the format adds meaning, or at least doesn't distract from it. When poetry fails, it's because the person either has nothing to say or they are a slave to their format.

Art, from what I can tell everyone here feels honored when you place one of your poetic comments in their blog. My comments in response don't do you justice in large part because I don't think I've got much of an ear for the form. But I hope you realize that your presence here is very much appreciated.

Live long and prosper...

_____♫♥♫_____♫♥♫
____♫♥___Peace___♥♫
___♫♥____Love____ ♥
____♫♥ Happiness ♥♫
______♫♥______♥♫
________♫♥__♥♫
___________♥

Good morn. Good grief. You get to be an elder and anything One says - Something . . .
Something 'ring' true
Sometimes I'm called:
Idiot!
Moron
Pervert
Vampire
Pot Breath?
Knucklehead
The last time I was called an imbecile I got sad because I wanted to be called some:
`
Potbelly beer gut
There is the truth
I had 3- beers too
`
I spent yesterday giggling at the farm. Three beers makes me DUI back to my shack.
I always wonder.
I've no answers.
Comments help.
I get tear-eyed.
Speechless too.
I recall Dylan Thomas was being critiqued. He accidently drank himself to death.
My speech slurs.
I try to no drink.
Two beers, nap.
My bare rule is:
Blog nude too:
Blog carefully.
Blog with banker's daughter. My first read was @ Kerry's "New Hits" party. . .
Last eve with two-beers increasing my pot-belly I played life safe and 'hit' sack.
Three beers?
I double drip.
My lips drool.
I crave a smoke.
ay deju vu . . .
I type 'oui' and oy!
Post and comments at Open Salon and elsewhere in the blogosphere send me aloft. Ah!
It's instructive. Ay!
It is a masquerade.
We read bitter bombs.
We read `bout wild cats.
We clench the molar jaws.
Maybe we clench the teeth.
I never know what I'll banter.
I'd rather speak face to face.
The frontal lobes go wacky.
It's fun and copious too.
I love sweetness hints.
Folk poke in snouts.
That's not flattery.
That's flatulence.
So - Last eve with three beers expanding my pot belly girth (it's not too big a pot gut)`
I 'hit' the hay.
'Flying Dog'
That's a local brewery in Frederick, Maryland. flyingdogbrewery.com / 'Wildeman Farmhouse'
`
'His axe is [un] stained with the blood of a thousand adversaries. We fall in behind him as he leads us into the darkness. He turns his gaze on us'
`
beer - Tentanda via est!
"The way must be tried."
`
The is what is on beer bottle.
I wonder ref:` Critique too.
I believe in constructiveness.
It is also wise to tear down.
I try to have a Pure Intent.
I'm saying`Thanks Folks.
It will be another wild day.

(twirl finger `round ear)

Flying Dog... 9% alcohol, yipee, a little pot belly keeps everyone warm, it's February, winter coat needed.

Art..three beers…would that I have done a face to face with
your shitfacedness…I would abjure the idiotic cultural ideas buzzing at our buzzed out heads (for I too would imbibe, and then some…)and tell you that the secret to attractibility to good earnest women is not the potbelly size, but the eyes…they always say, oh your eyes…

but we know the eye secret! It is to read good valuable text. Like Thomas, Dylan.
“don’t go good into that night…go good & ready..” (paraphrase)
He was a morbid soul and mapped morbidity to the nth degree.
Still, since he accidentally drank hisself to death, he was a contender.
Contend with spiritual powers in high places, not flesh and blood.
(this is the Bible.)
A man needs a jew, preferably a wandering one, to tell him hint of some Way.
Luckily I have mr Dylan, ah, ha no , Zimmerman…

Does music make a difference in the overall historical political sexual economic stuff?
Ha. Of course. All gals and boys plugged in now.
If only to troubadour jews tho:

Here is his most secret lovely masterpiece I share only with u…

“across the green mountain..’ the voice of many ages croaks and plays and gives comfort:

I cross the Green Mountain
I sit by the stream
Heaven blazing in my head I
I dreamt a monsterous dream
Something came up
Out of the sea
Swept through the land of
The rich and the free

I look into the eyes
of my merciful friend
And then I ask myself
Is this the end?
Memories linger
Sad yet sweet
And I think of the souls in heaven who will be

Alters are burning
The flames far and wide
the fool has crossed over
from the other side
They tip their caps
from the top of the hill
You can feel them come
All brave blood do spill

Along the dim
Atlantic line
The rapper`s land
lasts for miles behind
the lights coming foreward
and the streets are broad
all must yield
To the avenging God

The world is old
The world is great
Lessons of life
Can`t be learned in a day
I watch and I wait
And I listen while I stand
To the music that comes
from a far better land

Close the eyes
of our Captain
Peace may he know
His long night is done
The great leader is laid low
He was ready to fall
He was quick to defend
Killed outright he was
by his own men

It`s the last day`s last hour
of the last happy year
I feel that the unknown
The world is so dear
Pride will vanish
And glory will rot
But virtue lives
and cannot be forgot

The bells
of evening have rung
there`s blasphemy
on the end of the tongue
Let them say that I walked
in fair nature`s light
And that I was loyal
to truth and to right

Serve God and meet your full
Look upward beyond
Beyond the darkness that masks
the surprises of dawn
In the deep green grasses
and the blood stained woods
They never dreamed of surrendering
They fell where they stood

Stars fell over Alabama
And I saw each star
You`re walking in dreams
Whoever you are
Chilled as the skies
Keen as the frost
And the ground`s froze hard
And the morning is lost

A letter to mother
came today
Gunshot wound to the breast
is what it did say
But he`ll be better soon
He`s in a hospital bed
But he`ll never be better
He`s already dead

I`m ten miles outside the city
And I`m lifted away
In an ancient light
That is not of day
They were calm they were gloomed
We knew them all too well
We loved eachother more than
we ever dared to tell


A summation of the civil war, some say, but hardly. Dylan lives in the past
Daily reenacting this war.

Art u get me in a most modest apocalyptic mood,
Quite opposed to my earlier bipolar utterances and habits that got me arrested and shacked and sent to the big house, which is a small house, a buncha boys playing summer camp..

Prison is not terrifying but loss of freedom of limbs is.
Here is another gem of a jew song, a Dylan (not Thomas) thing that swings and sways.

“Well, it`s always been my nature to take chances
My right hand drawing back while my left hand advances
Where the current is strong and the monkey dances
To the tune of a concertina

Blood dryin` in my yellow hair as I go from shore to shore
I know what it is that has drawn me to your door
But whatever it could be, makes you think you`ve seen me before
Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina

His eyes were two slits that would make a snake proud
With a face that any painter would paint as he walked through the crowd
Worshipping a god with the body of a woman well endowed
And the head of a hyena

Do I need your permission to turn the other cheek?
If you can read my mind, why must I speak?
No, I have heard nothing about the man that you seek
Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina

In the valley of the giants where the stars and stripes explode
The peaches they were sweet and the milk and honey flowed
I was only following instructions when the judge sent me down the road
With your subpoena

When you cease to exist, then who will you blame?
I`ve tried my best to love you, but I cannot play this game
Your best friend and my worst enemy is one and the same
Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina

There`s a black Mercedes rollin` through the combat zone
Your servants are half dead; you`re down to the bone
Tell me, tall man, where would you like to be overthrown
Maybe down in Jerusalem or Argentina?

She was stolen from her mother when she was three days old
Now her vengeance has been satisfied and her possessions have been sold
He`s surrounded by God`s angels and she`s wearin` a blindfold
And so are you, Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina

I see pieces of men marching; trying to take heaven by force
I can see the unknown rider, I can see the pale white horse
In God`s truth tell me what you want, and you`ll have it of course
Just step into the arena

Beat a path of retreat up them spiral staircases
Pass the tree of smoke, pass the angel with four faces
Begging God for mercy and weepin` in unholy places
Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina”




Much to ingest yr head around. Hope ya got two beers at least inya.

this angelina, gosh such a good girl. a sincere one.

sincerity of the gals is not a thing for a man to address
or have commerce in.
she has the choice and the will of her own..
we meet stray cats, ghostgirls, nubile nuns ready to
shuck their vows,
and
we must remain perfect gentlemen, yes/
?

for when we are called to judgment, as i am
nightly in my dreams,
we must say we had
respect for women.

and this, man, is a new thing in this universe.

we are pioneers!!

in the pu with scarlett and rita we oughta go someday,
proselytzing,
as they say.

we are good.

and that is the worst sin today in an upside world
running backwards. in time.

we need cultivate patience.