sadmanbarty
Well-known member
If the image in your mind is bland that is not the fault of yeats it's a failure of your imagination,
that's bollocks though. i can conjure up all sorts of shit. every time me and you talk i do so.
If the image in your mind is bland that is not the fault of yeats it's a failure of your imagination,
that's bollocks though. i can conjure up all sorts of shit. every time me and you talk i do so.
You're not demanding enough of yourself. You're being lazy. You're not using the whole of your apparatus. It's not linked up.
why use yeets at all then? if i'm brilliant and the poem needs me to pretend it's good for it to work, why don't i just cut the dead wait and be amazing without it?
It's not a poem I would choose to introduce someone to poetry but corpsey is obsessed with ageing.
Are you asking me to justify the existence of art?
if you admit the poem's a hunk of shit we can move on. i'm sure there's brilliant poetry out there and i'm looking forward to learning all about it, but that was fucking terrible.
i'll do it tomorrow.
but do answer the question about the pamflet.
what makes that poem more aesthetically rewarding than a health and safety pamflet?
So you have, first of all, in your mind, old men, watching their reflections in the water. You have to see it. This is what it means to read. Now In and of itself I find that quite affecting. When I look in the mirror now I see signs of aging. My skin is coarser. The pores are growing wider on my cheeks. I'm red and windblown. I've got grey in my beard. I'm bald. I've crossed a threshold. I'm starting to decay. I'll never be beautiful again. So I can perhaps relate more easily to these old men admiring themselves in the water.
And you have to hear their voices, and you have to allow them to be real. You have to let the old men talk to you. They are real. In Alan Moore's way of telling it they reside in the immateria.
One by one we drop away
You have to be willing to invite death into your thoughts. Not to skip over it, yeah yeah everyone dies whatever mate but actually take the time to let the reality of death, the death of those you love, your death, to enter you. And let it settle. How do you conceive of life? What does it mean to you, this dropping away?
And then we visualise these men, these gnarled, knotted, twisted, woody old men. These nature spirits. Broken by labour and by time. Bodies used up and broken by toil. Becoming a part of the landscape. Trees among trees by the water.
All the beautiful girls they knew, all the beautiful boys, dead or wizened. What is this? Why does this happen? What is time? The moving image of eternity.
What's your point?