Tonight I'd like to feature one of my favorite poets, Richard Brautigan, in an effort to get my mind off the unstoppable Charlotte Bobcats who maul their way into Staples tomorrow night to rip the flesh off of our beloved Los Angeles Lakers. The 'juggernauts" must go down.
With that off my chest, we can get started with the poetry madness. If you have never heard of Richard Brautigan, now you have- I highly recommend you turn off your brain for a few minutes and possibly a few weeks and enter his world- ne plus ultra!
A Boat
by Richard Brautigan
O beautiful
was the werewolf
in his evil forest.
We took him
to the carnival
and he started
crying
when he saw
the Ferris wheel.
Electric
green and red tears
flowed down
his furry cheeks.
He looked
like a boat
out on the dark
water.
The View from the Dog Tower
by Richard Brautigan
"... three German shepherd puppies wandered away from their home up near the County line."
— North Country Journal
Serving Northern Santa Cruz County
I have been thinking about this little item that I read in the North County Journal for a couple of months now. It contains the boundaries of a small tragedy. I know we are surrounded by so much blossoming horror in the world (Vietnam, starvation, rioting, living in hopeless fear, etc.) that three puppies wandering off isn't very much, but I worry about it and see this simple event as the possible telescope for a larger agony.
"...three German shepherd puppies wandered away from their home up near the County line." It sounds like something from a Bob Dylan song.
Perhaps they vanished playing, barking and chasing each other, into the woods where lost they are to this very day, cringing around like scraps of dogs, looking for any small thing to eat, intellectually unable to comprehend what has happened to them because their brains are welded to their stomachs.
Their voices are used now only to cry out in fear and hunger, and all their playing days are over, those days of careless pleasure that led them into the terrible woods.
I fear that these poor lost dogs may be the shadow of a future journey if we don't watch out.
If I had to say there is one writer who has had a profound influence on my mind, it would have to be Brautigan. Sometimes I write poetry, and I read it to myself using his voice instead of mine. Everything seems to come out better.
My friend, R.B.
by justin j murphy
With that off my chest, we can get started with the poetry madness. If you have never heard of Richard Brautigan, now you have- I highly recommend you turn off your brain for a few minutes and possibly a few weeks and enter his world- ne plus ultra!
A Boat
by Richard Brautigan
O beautiful
was the werewolf
in his evil forest.
We took him
to the carnival
and he started
crying
when he saw
the Ferris wheel.
Electric
green and red tears
flowed down
his furry cheeks.
He looked
like a boat
out on the dark
water.
The View from the Dog Tower
by Richard Brautigan
"... three German shepherd puppies wandered away from their home up near the County line."
— North Country Journal
Serving Northern Santa Cruz County
I have been thinking about this little item that I read in the North County Journal for a couple of months now. It contains the boundaries of a small tragedy. I know we are surrounded by so much blossoming horror in the world (Vietnam, starvation, rioting, living in hopeless fear, etc.) that three puppies wandering off isn't very much, but I worry about it and see this simple event as the possible telescope for a larger agony.
"...three German shepherd puppies wandered away from their home up near the County line." It sounds like something from a Bob Dylan song.
Perhaps they vanished playing, barking and chasing each other, into the woods where lost they are to this very day, cringing around like scraps of dogs, looking for any small thing to eat, intellectually unable to comprehend what has happened to them because their brains are welded to their stomachs.
Their voices are used now only to cry out in fear and hunger, and all their playing days are over, those days of careless pleasure that led them into the terrible woods.
I fear that these poor lost dogs may be the shadow of a future journey if we don't watch out.
If I had to say there is one writer who has had a profound influence on my mind, it would have to be Brautigan. Sometimes I write poetry, and I read it to myself using his voice instead of mine. Everything seems to come out better.
My friend, R.B.
by justin j murphy
i’m sorry that he killed himself
with a magnum
i would have stayed with him in his home
near the water
in San Francisco
and told him
he was brilliant
maybe
we would have shared
a bottle of whiskey
instead of him
drinking it alone
and loading that gun
we could have had fun
talking about Japanese women
and absurd telephone conversations
-maybe enough fun
to keep him alive
This poem was written for Richard who took his own life in 1984. I never knew him personally, but as with all writers that one reads and loves, a spiritual connection is realized, something that transcends time and physics and places us all side by side. Without ever knowing him, I miss him. The world he wrote about and lived through is gone today, but, through him, there is always a way back into it.
infinity
by justin j murphy
a strange twisted oval
what a waste of time
messages from bolinas, 1979
by justin j murphy
this notion of writing messages
and traveling to distant oceans
and dropping them into the hyperactive current
expecting them to one day appear
on an english speaking coast
is the equivalent of hoping to death
that the crusades be erased from history
so many messages have been suffocated
between the rounded glass of wine and scotch bottles
messages that may have breathed easier
amplified in front of a standing group of people
in amsterdam perhaps
“these words are sacrificed to anonymity for split seconds of truth”
says one of the writers
as he licks his lips
and smears ink between his fingers
the sea rejects the glass messages like a virus
is it not obvious that the sea is only an extension of human blood?
in which case
all entertaining substances
must be metabolized
thrust out
like a san dimas waterslide
into a cesspool
of human dna
regardless
a bottle landed at my feet today
on the edge of california
uncorking the bottle with my teeth
thinking of brine
i painstakingly extracted the notes
that were nothing more
than the ramblings
of an author
and his friends
drunk in bolinas
in 1979
their script bears the greasy mark of infamous evenings
their mortal wagers
perpetually unpaid
and the women they spoke so lasciviously about
no longer lending them a bed
instead
the ocean is the tomb of their forgotten musings of semi-youth
and i am the grave robber
Richard Brautigan died in Bolinas, CA, an absolutely gorgeous coastal town north of San Francisco. His life, as well as his words, have inspired me on more than one occasion to write. If I had actually found a bottle of Brautigan's words on the edge of California, I highly doubt I would have referred to them as "ramblings." Hope you all enjoyed...have a drink for R.B.
with a magnum
i would have stayed with him in his home
near the water
in San Francisco
and told him
he was brilliant
maybe
we would have shared
a bottle of whiskey
instead of him
drinking it alone
and loading that gun
we could have had fun
talking about Japanese women
and absurd telephone conversations
-maybe enough fun
to keep him alive
This poem was written for Richard who took his own life in 1984. I never knew him personally, but as with all writers that one reads and loves, a spiritual connection is realized, something that transcends time and physics and places us all side by side. Without ever knowing him, I miss him. The world he wrote about and lived through is gone today, but, through him, there is always a way back into it.
infinity
by justin j murphy
a strange twisted oval
what a waste of time
messages from bolinas, 1979
by justin j murphy
this notion of writing messages
and traveling to distant oceans
and dropping them into the hyperactive current
expecting them to one day appear
on an english speaking coast
is the equivalent of hoping to death
that the crusades be erased from history
so many messages have been suffocated
between the rounded glass of wine and scotch bottles
messages that may have breathed easier
amplified in front of a standing group of people
in amsterdam perhaps
“these words are sacrificed to anonymity for split seconds of truth”
says one of the writers
as he licks his lips
and smears ink between his fingers
the sea rejects the glass messages like a virus
is it not obvious that the sea is only an extension of human blood?
in which case
all entertaining substances
must be metabolized
thrust out
like a san dimas waterslide
into a cesspool
of human dna
regardless
a bottle landed at my feet today
on the edge of california
uncorking the bottle with my teeth
thinking of brine
i painstakingly extracted the notes
that were nothing more
than the ramblings
of an author
and his friends
drunk in bolinas
in 1979
their script bears the greasy mark of infamous evenings
their mortal wagers
perpetually unpaid
and the women they spoke so lasciviously about
no longer lending them a bed
instead
the ocean is the tomb of their forgotten musings of semi-youth
and i am the grave robber
Richard Brautigan died in Bolinas, CA, an absolutely gorgeous coastal town north of San Francisco. His life, as well as his words, have inspired me on more than one occasion to write. If I had actually found a bottle of Brautigan's words on the edge of California, I highly doubt I would have referred to them as "ramblings." Hope you all enjoyed...have a drink for R.B.
The View from the Dog Tower... wow. I can't even describe how that made me feel. I'll have to read more of his writings.
ReplyDeleteLoved Infinity and Messages from Bolinas, 1979. I'm pretty sure I had already read My Friend R.B.
Nice work, Nitsuj. Keep 'em coming!