moving the main theme to a different thread to discuss Kenalls book. Mean while hope the poetry discussion can continue,
I also enjoyed Richard Kendall’s book. Even though there weren’t many insights into Jane, I was able to get a real sense of what it felt like to be there. I don’t feel that I need any more insights into Jane anyway, Seth has given us plenty! I don’t know what is going on with Richard these days, haven’t seen him around on FB for a long time, hopefully he is just taking a break or is busy.
I went to class with Richard and was also one of the NY Boys. Seth referred to me as “our poet.” Therefore, you may also enjoy my poetry book “Outside Is A Secret Key” which can be found on Amazon in Kindle or hardcopy, of I can send you an autographed copy if you wish to buy it thru me directly. In any case, be well & happy and enjoy everything in and surrounding the Seth material. Barrie
PS: I forgot to mention that Sue used some of my poems in her two books on class called “Conversations With Seth” Vol.1+2.
Thanks for the offer Barrie, but I rarely read Poetry.
The other thing I wonder at is the amount of material that is still unpublished and the reasons for that. Who is sitting on it and why? Again with Amazon kindle its not an undoable task to get it all out there. Rick has done a remarkable job so far. But I sense realms of material which is still not released.
I’m glad you enjoyed Richard’s book. Below is a pic of me (middle) and Richard (left); that’s Arthur (right)–who also went to class. I hope the pic comes out on the site.
Even tho my poems are very assessable, I understand that many people don’t think that poetry is for them. So, keep reading all the things that you enjoy, and here is a 7 poem sample from my book–accept them as a xmas gift.
Be well & happy,
Perhaps the rug
is the sky upside down,
and the cats prowling are
planes on patrol.
Perhaps I’m a cloud
hovering on the couch,
and the ceiling the desert
of the Sahara.
Perhaps the unvacuumed dirt
are stars telling myths,
and the paint peeling above,
suitors fatigued by passion.
the breeze knows some thing that
we don’t as it caresses
we go somewhere
even if it’s no place
MYSELF IN HIDING
i am dazed and in awe
of myself that’s
i almost look, but i don’t
i almost see, but i don’t
i’m left with an invisible
tugging on my
a hero in
AN UNTAPPED ANGER
i feel an untapped anger
in my body
waiting to reach out
in order to protect me
being a poet
is waking up in the middle
of the night
in order to scribble down
–END OF POEMS–
thank you Barrie, and the photograph came out just fine
thank you Barrie for sharing your poetry.
I rarely read poetry
& have written about three poems only so far myself.
of the poems you posted here
I especially like
Myself in Hiding &
create well & happily ;D
So, you’ve now read 7 percent of my book. Of those poems you like best, this is when they were written along with my age at the time.
The Breeze (3-31-79) 28 yrs old
Myself in Hiding (12-27-70) 20 yrs old
Silly Disobedience (3-3-82) 31 yes old
Here is a poem that is a little more stream of consciousness and so you may not like it. It is not in the book along with 3,900 other poems not in the book. But it is about the background of the New York Boys, leading up to going to Seth class. I was 26 when I wrote it in 1976.
Clearview was the name of the neighborhood we grew up in; and one of the main streets was actually called Utopia Parkway. All of us were quite molded by the 1960s–with its drug experimentations, sexual freedom explosion thanks to the birth control pill, and an awareness of possible death thanks to 1950s fear of nuclear anniliation and the 1960s senseless undeclared war in Vietnam. So this poem serves as an introduction. Think of it as a “House & Gardens” background photo layout of the home & roots of the “New York Boys.”
Ode for the “New York Boys”
Born in the 1950s we became a quaalude generation
Stumbling down dark lanes of chrome to soft basement couches,
Hair tossing off t-shirts and bouncing off necks, parents always away.
We were a valium generation dozing behind the wheels
Of Buicks and bicycles, with backs against the wall at the candy store corner.
Our faces suddenly became covered with scraggly beards
As girls hid birth control pills inside their dresser drawer socks.
We were religious pagans inspecting shadows and pimples
On sidewalk afternoons, who didn’t understand what we understood,
But just felt that something had to change or explode…and soon.
We walked around using our souls for money and we gambled for keeps
Believing we could actually lose,
Tossing to sleep some nights feeling lost and worthless.
Blankets became six feet of dirt thrown over our bedroom graves,
But we’d awaken remarkably refreshed and ready to roll all over again….
Religions, tho, had nothing to do with the gods we sought, saw and were
As daily Theologies of Self, based on compassion and vanity,
Lived and died during nights of partying and driving home stoned.
We ate bits of ancient wisdom and washed them down with wine.
We were in the Mad Hatter’s temple of decadence mixed with Donald Duck,
Of cosmic consciousness mixed with comic books, Buddhism with basketball,
And softball always waiting to be played under the illumination of the White Light….
We’d seen our eyes staring back at us in wonder at mirrored Gods
Overwhelming and paralyzing each step we took into the Soul,
Smashing against bits of individuals tight-roping a wounded America.
We’d seen bags of blood shot thru nickel bathrooms, sprinkling
Red and white porcelain almost carrying dreams down drains.
We’d seen glassine textbooks flood Jungian sewers and Campbellic myths
Of high school ankles hiding tracks and bracelets of first love….
Age crept in circles like a clock ticking days off the first kiss,
The first touch, the miracle of awareness that altho we were fallible,
"The circumstances of existence were still pretty glorious."
Even within death-wish nightmares, sweaty eyes awakened, staring,
Pulsing to shapes on walls, silhouetting brains on fire,
Still wishing to live and search despite chemical bakeries
And amphetamine acres of skin….
We took flight on the sweet bird of Paul Newman’s blue eyes
And Bilko’s military yelp mocking draft boards who finally
Got the word to avoid the strange Clearview boys
Who roamed Utopia Parkway in their 4-F madness.
We hunted our territory alert to the wail of Kramden, the mysticism of Topper
And the ever-desperate fighting of the sailor Popeye’s mutated face.
We sang our mass transit songs of blond Johns and Greek Marias
Popping pills and Pepsis, drooling tuinals on their twelve-year-old shoulders.
We sang of rivalries young and old, of gnostics and hotel harlots,
Of bay hillside grazing on gallo port wine
Where mad police soon stalked marijuana on scooters, scattering our bodies
As residents silently walked their dogs in daylight protest
Hoping to properly place their pets’ poops to keep us away at nightfall….
This ode is for the angels of madness, for us, who would soon be called
The “New York Boys” of Elmira’s nighttime labyrinth descent–
The crystals who stood naked on the corner of Clearview and arrived
Breathing heavily on the couch of a lady with two names
In a living room filled with the tobacco ghost mist of a spirit named You.
----END OF POEM----
Be well & happy,
i totally agree with your choices! not that you need my agreement, just felt it as delightfully energizing that i felt the same.
Barrie…thank you oh so much for sharing ‘Clearview’. I felt I could see and feel you all. Would I could remember being a fly on that wall of the living room filled with tobacco ghost mist… WOW!
thank you, Barrie. for sharing your clear view ode ;D
although, due to my having grown up in the reality of a different continent, a lot of the things you hint at are lost on me, I believe I kinda get the drift .
always fun to agree, Lynda; thänx for letting me know