Wednesday 3rd October, 2007

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Thought for Today

Every generation gap should have some kind of bridge - even if it's only made of love.

 

This One Does It For Me!

Ken,

One of my most favorite books was "Beyond the Boardwalk."

Having lost it some time ago I'd appreciate you posting anything from this wonderful volume.

Janice Nelson

My pleasure, Janice. It's one of my favorite books as well due to it containing a lot of Rod's African related work.

Here's the introduction along with a most appropriately entitled poem.

Introduction - Beyond the Boardwalk

A poet is a keeper of the language. He must repair but never rape the words that form his native language. He should improvise but never bowdlerize, invent but in no circumstance add or help to make indelible the bastard words that advertisers coin. Nor should he be an advertisement for himself. The euphemisms used by men treating syllables as soldiers should be killed by every poet’s pencil. Murdered by his inattention.

Poetry is personal, or should be. When a poem isn’t heard a different way inside the head of every man who reads it, it is not a poem. Poetry should let some light in where there is darkness, but it should never cover up or hide despair, human misery or suffering. Rather it should be a ladder leading those who suffer out of the pit and up the well. A bridge is what a poem should be. From the poet to the people - traveled both directions.

Here are a few things a poet isn’t. He is not a minister, a prophet, a politician, a pessimist, a peacock, an ostrich, a guru, a god, an isolationist, a tightrope walker or a mechanic.

Here are some things a poet should be. A saver of things, a neighbor friendly without forcing it, a musician who knows that words are orchestrated the same as notes on paper, a farmer, free, fundamental but not unbending, sure but not unyielding, childlike though never simple minded, sorry, straightforward, honest, humorous, happy-sad, sad-happy, and silly when he wants to be.

Poetry is no excuse to lie, nor is the making of a poem just an exercise of words. Each poem should begin, have a proper middle and an end - much the same as every man ( and Everyman’s life ) does.

Poetry should live, bouncing off the printed page as needed. Poetry should promise and fulfill.

A poet is a keeper of the language, little more. That is responsibility enough.

The words in this book were started in Oakland, California more than twenty years ago and finished at The Pines in New York in September, 1975. Some of them will be a premiere of sorts for those who think I write only of the lonely and the loner.

Having said a poet is not meant to be a seer or a crystal gazer, how can I explain that I wrote the poems in Campaign Promises nearly a full year before Watergate ? And A Message to Those Leaving with it’s reference to ‘The Quadraphonic Oval Office’ was read by Roy Leonard in Chicago to his radio listeners a full eight months before the tapes were publically known to have existed in the White House, and published in a magazine several months before that. I consider an explanation irrelevant and I don’t have one.

The poetry in To the Last Man Carrying the Last Gun has had very little re-writing since its inception in 1953. It is an excerpt from a much larger work entitled ‘Elephant in the Rice Paddy’ written about my experiences in Korea and Japan.

The Safari poetry was written on my first trip to Africa in the fall of 1975.

Most of Love Letters is very new especially the Eldon poems and Juan. Through the Autumn Field was recorded as part of the album ‘The Earth’ and Body Surfing with the Jet Set, as part of my ‘Sea Trilogy’.

Southern California seems to contain my most native poetry ( the subject matter and style people associate with me ).

Boardwalk II was the last poems written for this book and like the traveler in it I feel I have journeyed some distances since writing Boardwalk, I.

It’s hard to let go of a poem, but some of you by caring have made it easier.

Rod McKuen - The Pines, 1975

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The true believer always questions; only sheep are silent.

Marriage renders a man unique, virtuous and wise - so does thirty years in a monastery.

OCTOBER 3, 1953

That last big moon
rose late last night.
It dawdled on a hillside
resting between two rocks,
crouching before its flight
across the sky.

The stars,
numberless circles of light,
guiding the trucks if need be
as we moved out along the ridge.

Below the hill,
I heard the steady sound of cadence.
Not men but commands of crickets.
And since it was October now
I know this might well be
the last time crickets marched
or made a fuss
before the snow came.

A week has passed
and still no snow
though every night
is colder now
and every day
is a little shorter
than the day before.

Maneuvers still go on
though papers of peace
have passed from general
                         to general
from right side
to wrong side
depending on which side
             you’re on.

Twin soldiers
scout the woods ahead,
breaking down the underbrush
and swearing at the rain.
They’d curse the sun’s shine
if it did.

I am listening, I am.
Trying hard to understand,
but as the evening
                      takes me in
all I hear is rain.

- from "Beyond the Boardwalk"

 
    AND FINALLY

More next week. Meantime if you have a favorite McKuen song, poem or story you'd like to share, or a question you need answered, drop me a line at kenb@mckuen.com and I'll do the rest.

-Ken, Johannesburg, South Africa, October 3

 
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