Sol Paradise [poem]

Dave!

Hey,

This is something I wrote today. I edited it a bit this evening, and it's a bit better than it was, but I'm still unsure about it in parts. I don't normally write this kind of free verse stuff, so I'm curious to know what anyone thinks! I've not really got anything pending for publication at the moment, so I might as well stick something up here and get some feedback I kinda envisage it as a bit of a performance thing maybe.

Thanks

p.s. I'm sooo sh*t at choosing titles. Lemme know if this one comes across as dumb. the narrator in Kerouac's "On the Road" is Sal Paradise, and "sol" is "sun" in Spanish...:pac: It's kind of appropriate to the meaning of the poem, I guess, but a bit puntastic.


Sol Paradise

My sanctuary compromised by child and dog
and putrid sound, I search and find a filthy bench
of rust and dirt and broken paint.

Two feral cats sit near and watch
as coyly I pretend to read, batting away
curious flies and curious passers-by.

I struggle for solitude, and, though I travel
lighter every day, I carry a heavier load: no
Kerouacian tale ever came of a park bench
and a mewing cat;

Yet, my heart should be full, as I sit and ponder
dusty cigarette packet and fallen leaf:
I win, if ink adorns the page from a vacant pen;
I win, if pubescent inanity grows dimmer beyond the nearby hedge;
I win, if roads are free of cars and trucks and screaming sirens.

Could I be Cohen? Of wine and sex and stage I’d speak
(I swear, I’d be happy); and yet, I find some peace
in a peaceful park; find shade under a grotesque tree;
hear music from some choral birds; see sun-infused
psychadelic grass; smell pink, fragrant flowers from a
distant bush.

heathledgerlove

Hiya! Yeah, I seldom (read: never) post here. Or anywhere. Had to try and re-activate a very ancient account for this. Sorry for misspellings and crappy syntax / grammar, scribbled it out late last night.
On with the review!


I liked your poem, really cool! I remember doing Ginsberg in college, I remember Howl was about hippies. Wasn't it? Some such? Or the 1950's equivalent - beatniks. He had another poem about a supermarket, that had a big impact on the class as I recall, particularly one line! So, your poem.

I like the first stanza, the way in which you are conveying the conventionally uninspiring squalor from which you presumably derive your disenfranchised state of mind while composing this poem. The fact that you actively sought out this setting is telling! The grittier side of life is not one in which we would like to confront in our daily lives. Not first thing in the morning anyway. Hence how we adorn our bedrooms with items of comfort such as pictures and photos and familiar niknaks. Digress!

Also, the images you depicted in the first stanza are very deliberately mundane and everyday, domestic even - child and dog, but are stripped of their usual positive connotations: filthy... rust and dirt and broken. Is this a reflection of the poet's (you - although not necessarily you personally!) ... not derision, exactly, but dissatisfaction with the conventional? It would appear so, to me anyway. Nicely done.

From the next stanza, I believe that the two cats and the poet are equivalent - they are in the same place and behave in tandem, and thus the reader is led to presume there is something "feral" lurking within the poet. An explanation as to I see them as so similar: the cats bat away flies, while the poet "bats away" or rejects the people who happen to be near: albeit more subtly, by giving them, as Mark from the opening episode (scene!) of Peep Show would say, "the book-off." Again a very skilful comparison; I especially like the use of cats as a representation of solitude and brooding-ness, while the earlier dogs are associated with the hustle and bustle of "normal" routine. Even non-animal people will appreciate this contrast.

Interesting the next image: of traveling lighter and yet gathering more to carry around. Presumably if the poet is getting freer to travel lighter every day, he or she is stripping themselves of the "baggage" of life: the trappings of relationships, family, work, sociability, the respectable facade. This is very much in keeping with the Beat movement as I remember learning about it. But why is she or he carrying a heavier load? Is it the pressure that comes when one must face the actual writing process, having disposed of the usual suspects that tend to inhibit creativity. (As Mr Burns would put it, "Family, Religion, Friendship... these are the three demons you must slay if you wish to succeed...!" I'm taking that out of context I know!) It could well be overwhelming, having found at last the courage to chase the muse only to hit a wall, so to speak, when putting pen to paper. Or keys to typewriter, as Kerouac famously did! I do think, that in this allusion, you do rather contradict yourself in stating that no wonderful free-verse free-thinking philosophy ever came from a park bench. The writer of this poem was on one, no?

Incidentally, before I even went and re-read your introduction, I figured that the title of the poem was a nod to the main protag of On the Road, but I have just checked and his name was Sal, not Sol. Still! You had me making the immediate association.

More personally-instilled pressure in the next section, where the writer tells him/herself, and us the reader, that by rights they should be inspired by the merciful solitude, interrupted only by dusty cigarette packet and fallen leaf, but the problem of course is that pondering items such does not immediately (or in some cases , ever ) move the writer into a profound awareness that manifests itself into clever, (rhyming!) declarations. What I mean is that it is difficult to convert feelings into words, and this moody figure on the bench encapsulates this.

Next comes your best bit of poetic technique, as in your use of repetition at the start of the next three lines. Reminds me of your inspiration Howl again, in the seemingly never-ending repetition of who - who - who - who as he describes all sorts of crazy characters and situations - they seem so very different and diverse but are united in their position as the best minds of (a) generation. Your poem is a lot more personal than political, although you could of course argue that it says something about class, and societal constraints, and modern living.

At any rate: the I wins. In these three lines, I feel, the theme of freedom and writing being inextricably linked is again broached and actually pretty well summed up. In fact there is an interesting development here. At first, the poet wishes to physically write, to perform the act of putting his or her pen on paper and producing something tangible; it is easy to understand this as a win. The next line is idealistic, and so it is appropriate indeed that it mentions quite explicitly, pubescent inanity - that is to say, the teen-age apathy and boredom that generally fixates upon leaving the comforting but stifling childhood and going out to experience the world and thus discover more subjects and emotions which will evoke more poetry.

HOWEVER it seems that the next line, the third win puts the brakes on this idealism (quite realistically!) by introducing precise stipulations on this newly-discovered freedom. Once the poet has taken the steps away from home beyond the nearby hedge, shall he or she only be satisfied if the world they discover there is free of cars and trucks and screaming sirens? Yes, it is understandable that these vehicles and the fast-paced industry they represent are not traditionally conducive to the contemplative existence so seemingly preferred for the poet. At any rate it would naturally be difficult to come up with clever words and rhyming schemes and sensitive ruminations if the nearby window was letting in the noises of gigantic lorries rumbling, motorbikes buzzing and car horns blaring. But these kind of noises are commonplace, and are a facet of every day life, no matter where the traveller might find his bootheels to be wandering! Moreover, seems like cars could be seen as representing travel and escape and freedom, so I find it curious that the poet disparages them. But maybe noisy cars and trucks here stand for commercialism and urban life; I can see that too and in that case, a clever metaphor.


Nearly there. As tends to happen in a lot of poems, the last verse is where the grumpiness and misanthropy tends to get dialled back, you know, as they say "And yet...." Hope and a rather decadent love of life is the dominant tone of the final stanza. I love the alliteration of Could I be Cohen? Be proud of this line! Smashing. I don't know too much about Cohen but I gather that a reference to him is giving the reader an actual image of the poet's aspirations: to be an artist who has experienced and enjoyed life and chronicled it thusly; not only did he or she dive into the heady indulgence of wine and sex, but he or she spoke about it, on stage, made something out of living this way instead of sleeping it off.

An aside (I swear, I'd be happy) This is an interesting line (or half a line), as the poet is indeed describing a life that would be well lived and enjoyed (who wouldn't want their share of sex and wine?!) and yet, this prediction of satisfaction is cut through with vulnerability and insecurity in the pre-qualifier, I swear. Who are you trying to convince? Sounds like a pleading promise one would make to one's parents when they express their disapproval of some crazy scheme or life plan. Or are you trying to strike a bargain with some higher power - the Muse - as in, 'Life, treat me this way, give me many wonderful and crazy experiences: I will convert it into poetry and pour it back out into the world.' Just another interpretation.

I've just realized you do actually say "and yet"! Right here. But the changeability of the mind is of course natural, especially when one is doing nothing but thinking and pondering in a peaceful park. The poem ends this way, by describing quite appetizing images of nature - this is a poetry trope that goes back through history far earlier to the Beat movement! Again I don't find it cliché though. Natural surroundings were the original impetus for the poem after all, and even the word Paradise will instantly cause the reader to imagine lush grass, trees, beautiful bucolic splendour: it's inevitable. You might as well use this common association, as indeed you have!

With this in mind, my only misgiving about the final lines is that they do not necessarily leave the reader with a strong image or shocking message to take away. Of course this may be deliberate on your part: it depends whether you wanted the poem to strike down like a boot-stamp or drift away on a breeze. I suspect the latter.

Dave!

Wow wow wow, thank you so much I've never seen anyone put so much effort into a critique/analysis on here, and you've seemingly registered solely to do it! I really appreciate it, gives me a warm fuzzy feeling that someone engaged so directly with something that I wrote I'd be interested to know your background – did you study English Lit in college or something? A mighty fine analysis

I'll have to read over what you wrote again, but you were spot on with a lot of stuff. You pointed out some stuff that I didn't notice too :pac: I wouldn't like to take credit for something seemingly clever within the poem that I didn't do intentionally – it would be more likely that anything clever is purely accidental :pac: But I do love that it's possible to find different images within it, and that people can have different interpretations of various things. It's the reason that I enjoy playing around with poetry. I've shared another poem with intentional imagery and historical references, and was a bit disappointed that nobody spotted them :pac:

I'm not hugely familiar with Ginsberg, nor indeed with Kerouac to be honest! I only discovered "Howl" the other day, but yeah it had a big impact on me. I've not even read "On the Road", hope it's not bad to admit that But I am familiar with what Kerouac and the book represent in American culture. I mentioned in the OP, but the title is an intentional mix of the protag from the book, and the Spanish word for "sun" – kinda lame, maybe! I'll give it some more thought.

Thank you again for taking the time to read and write all of that!

btw I'm unsure about the ending. Last night I added this final line, but am unsure about it:


Not quite Kerouac, but my road is clear; my journey just beginning.

Das Kitty

I really enjoyed that, though I'm ill-equipped to give feedback on poetry.

I think it flows well. I like how you compare your experience with Keroac and Cohen. Your static park-benched existence versus On the Road, your friend the cat versus Cohen's friend the... Where was I?

I think the last stanza worked nicely too, with being eased into the psychedelic first with the grotesque tree and choral birds. Nice. And nice ending.

GalwayGuy2

How do you write a poem without rhyming

Dave!

You listen to this 10 times:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVGoY9gom50

And then you try to emulate (read: plagiarise) it