The Many Faces of Poetry: Routinely

Posted: July 29, 2022 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Commentary, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Poetry, Social Commentary, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 1 Comment

Routinely

Routinely. We

Drive 3 ton vehicles seventy miles per hour. We do this in swarms, crowds, jams, at all angles and approaches. Routinely. Somehow it’s unusual to die in traffic on the way home. I don’t understand it.

Routinely. We

Bathe ourselves in electronic light. Hours and hours each day the photons emitted by our gear pass through our bodies.

Routinely. We Eat food that amounts to tenderized and processed glue.

Routinely. We stay indoors for hours, days, weeks, even months. It’s what we’re SUPPOSED to be doing. Right?

Routinely. We talk to no one for months on end. We have plenty of chat, little real talk.

Routinely. We expose ourselves to huge clusters of information in the form of digital glop, yet somehow we only go slightly insane.

Routinely. We breathe toxins generated by our culture without being aware of it.

Routinely. We witness horrors on the news and barely shrug because we are numb to horrors in this age of surfeit of horrors.

Routinely. We vote for callous lying cretins and elect them to public offices they don’t deserve. Routinely we continue allowing venal malicious fools to exploit us without doing a goddam thing. Routinely we accept a political situation that would not be too difficult to change but we don’t change it even though it’s destroying us.

Routinely. We juggle scenes of increasing complexity.

Routinely. We melt down when the complexity is overwhelming. The crazy shit we do depends on who we emulate. Do we shoot up a supermarket or do we binge on ice cream?

Routinely. We are surprised by what happens when we process this degree of overstimulation and make terrible decisions. Routinely our judgment is flawed by the input of mis and dis information.

Trust nothing but your own experience. Routinely.

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Arthur Rosch is a novelist, musician, photographer and poet. His works are funny, memorable and often compelling. One reviewer said “He’s wicked and feisty, but when he gets you by the guts, he never lets go.” Listeners to his music have compared him to Frank Zappa, Tom Waits, Randy Newman or Mose Allison. These comparisons are flattering but deceptive. Rosch is a stylist, a complete original. His material ranges from sly wit to gripping political commentary.

Arthur was born in the heart of Illinois and grew up in the western suburbs of St. Louis. In his teens he discovered his creative potential while hoping to please a girl. Though she left the scene, Arthur’s creativity stayed behind. In his early twenties he moved to San Francisco and took part in the thriving arts scene. His first literary sale was to Playboy Magazine. The piece went on to receive Playboy’s “Best Story of the Year” award. Arthur also has writing credits in Exquisite Corpse, Shutterbug, eDigital, and Cat Fancy Magazine. He has written five novels, a memoir and a large collection of poetry. His autobiographical novel, Confessions Of An Honest Man won the Honorable Mention award from Writer’s Digest in 2016.

More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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The Many Faces of Poetry

Posted: April 8, 2022 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 13 Comments

Poetry Of The Gnu Age

After reaching enlightenment,

Milarepa’s first three steps

burned footprints

into the rocks of his shelter

so that today

pilgrims bow to these relics as holy icons.

The yogi’s steps were fired in the kiln

of his deep understanding. A thousand

years have passed and his footprints remain

sunk into the bare granite.

Piano Lessons

I have ten fingers.

The piano has…really…

twelve notes plus octaves therefrom.

I tell my fingers

each day

“land somewhere new. Somewhere

you’ve never been. If it sounds good

then lead me forward. IF it does not.

We go again.

Ten fingers. Twelve notes and octaves.

Fingers: spread yourselves newly. Knuckle middle finger

rise a bit. Good.

Now…listen. OK?

send five left fingers to the lowest octave

teach them where they belong

repeat the patterns repeat the patterns

bring the fingers back up

then throw them like dice

at the keyboard let them fly

repeat the patterns again

repeat the patterns: over time

my fingers know things, acquire sense and pitch

before my ears know

before my brain knows

my fingers know.

And, strange as it may sound, always listen to your fingers.

Let us say, hypothetically, that I go to sleep

in just a t shirt. I have two pillows under my head

and a pillow between my knees. As I get ready for bed

I sweep my blankets back and I sit on my pillows, not quite knowing

that I have just stuck my ass in my face. The knee

pillow, especially, is a real ass-face pillow but not

exclusively. No. My other pillows double duty as

butt blankies. I don’t know when or if

I put my ass in my face. No one does.

It is a concern, that’s all. A sanitary consideration.

Truth is you walk around with your ass every day,

it’s on your body

and it hasn’t given you Salmonella or ebola

yet. It’s not going to whether you sit half naked

or not. Everyone is full of shit. We know that.

When some men play around in government,

they shit like water buffalos. Who knew?

They’re all full of shit.

And they sit on their pillows a lot.

Another thing I can stop worrying about.

Ukraine

It is one thing to think

“aw fuck, not again.”

Then it’s another thing to do

nothing, from a sense of overwhelm

at the misery of the world. Many of these miseries

were created by human beings. They are capable of un-creating them but that would take a lot of work. Humans have

a streak of lazy when it comes to inquiry about themselves.

One can say “My bad”

as if that dismisses responsibility. I’ve been bad

but it’s over. That is not enough. You can’t say “My good”

but you’ve got to do “my good”,

you must keep making beautiful things in the face of ignorance.

Help other people with small daily tasks.

Use everything you’ve got

because in the face of this calamity,

it’s not going to be enough.

It’s just a motive to keep working so that,

some day,

it will be enough.

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More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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The Many Faces of Poetry: My Credo

Posted: February 25, 2022 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 4 Comments

My Credo

Art Rosch

There is no truth but your own experience.

There is no method other than what you have, by trial and error,

found best enables you to survive.

There is no psychological health, because we are always deluded.

There is no physical health because we are always dying.

There is no teacher other than personal experience;

all other teachers are more like friends from whom one gleans

important information.

The quality of information one possesses translates to the quality of the life one lives.

Bad parents transmit bad information. This information has far reaching negative consequences, and one must struggle all one’s life to minimize the harm wrought by these consequences.

Consciousness is an experiment with different forms of information,

sifting through those that denigrate the self, selecting those

that optimize the self.

With the above in mind, it behooves one to act with the best judgment possible

under the circumstances, always bearing in mind that one’s compulsions, i.e.

the results of bad information, are always undermining good judgment.

It is useless to create inner tension between some mythical ideal of health

and what one actually is. Being what one is always takes precedence over

myths and ideals of competence, good judgment, wholeness, wellness

and enlightenment. Enlightenment (or the total apprehension of Truth) is possible at any moment, but the more

it becomes a goal, the more elusive it will be to attain.

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More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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The Many Faces of Poetry: 74

Posted: December 10, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 3 Comments

November 13, 2021

Old.

I am old.

Why is that so good?

I have a lot of experience.

That’s part of it. Experience

gives perspective. The mature mind

knows how swiftly things change,

how needless is the stress we impose

upon ourselves.

Old

means closer to death. Thoughts of death

sometimes visit. I have no problem with

death. Once, I would have raged at the prospect

of dying invisibly, and all my creations vanished. Never mind applause.

I don’t need that. It would be embarrassing.

The universe is vast and varied. My bit of it,

my earth landscape, has been just as varied and strange.

Every person is a universe; we live in a universe of universes that never end.

Old? If I could live another hundred years

I wouldn’t want to. These times are terrible. Humans

have multiplied without limit, till the earth groans. Why is it that only humans fuck up?

Whales don’t fuck up. Elephants don’t fuck up.

It must have to do with free will. Nah! It’s just stupidity.

It takes a lot of work to be smart. And even more work to be wise.

To be smart and wise, it helps to be

old. Whales and elephants: they’re old.

They’re old enough

and smart enough

to die off before the world becomes so miserable

that it’s no longer a wise place to live.

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More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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The Many Faces of Poetry: November Poems

Posted: November 26, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Words, Writing to be Read | 1 Comment

Volcano

October 2021

If words can be so beautiful that they

whoosh you from your body

into a place celestial

a paradise that’s not a myth

but a living world inside which

we dwell as though we have forgotten our own

eyes and our stomachs rumble

waiting for a meal that nurtures souls

by the trillions,

by the trillions, and what we call souls or spirits

can be called ghosts or intelligences

or French fries

no telling what they’re calling them ten billion light years from here.

It’s the same damned thing

so bright that it lights the stars

as if from the eternal birthday candle

or the scattering of cinders from a cooling volcano

filling a lake bed with red light and heat light

and heat

sustenance light. That’s how beautiful

words can be.

Late Stage Capitalism

Oct 20, 2021

Is this late stage capitalism?

People watching endless commercials disguised

as content, watching hypnotized

as the reasons to stay home multiply Covid

the madhouse of freedom, that’s America

where Freedom is ridiculous

and everyone’s opinion

matters, such a big deal, (your opinion)

I can give you a break, (I can I can), I can let you

go on about nothing, walk the streets with a sign

saying nothing, late stage capitalism

manipulated and focused greed,

through the screens, on the devices

helpless to disengage (what am I doing?)

late stage

helpless to engage (I’m doing this is what I’m doing)

capitalism, schism, minimism, monism

monetism, hypnotism, religionism

late stage catechism

I’ve run out of ism, run out of my ism, don’t even say it

cuz I’m old and getting older at the same speed as

everyone else.

This is late stage capitalism.

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More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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The Many Faces of Poetry: More Poetry From 21 Jumping Off Street

Posted: October 22, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 2 Comments

Fleas

There is a flea that alights on me;

former citizen of dog land

it got lost and is attracted

to my hairy arms.

My first instinct is to crush it

but some fleas are crush resistant and

it is futile to try, so just brush

don’t crush and allow the flea

its tiny attempt at life. I’m indifferent to some

creatures

unless they irritate or distract

and that is the flea

whose brotherhood is apparently immortal.

The host, too, is immortal, so

there is no way to be rid

of fleas.

Forgetting

“We haven’t earned the right to forget”. Guy Le Cuerrec – photographer

IF you think the gate is in front of you

look to the side.

If you think the gate is behind you

look ahead.

If you think a window is closed

in your room, it may be open but

hidden inside the closet.

If you think there is a closet

think again

there is a closet.

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More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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The Many Faces of Poetry: Poems Never End

Posted: October 8, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 2 Comments

Safecracker

The woman is talking to her shopping cart;

or: she’s talking to the stuff IN the shopping cart, it’s hard to know.

She doesn’t have a home. Maybe she’s talking to her home, that makes

a bit of sense.

I was there, for a part of my life.

I didn’t know where I would sleep.

An unlocked car or truck, maybe.

It was horrible; I was always scared.

I had a friend, one friend. You’ve got to have someone

at your back

when you’re low on the pole. If you’re lucky

that person won’t take your stuff

and vanish.

My guy was an ex and future con named Roger. We liked the same drugs.

If I scored, Roger scored too.

You’ve got to have something to do

when you’re homeless. Copping drugs

fills the day, occupies the role of job and family.

I was better at copping than Roger. For him, I was a profit taking venture.

He probably wound up in jail again. He did time at Arizona State Prison

for cracking safes. He was bound to get busted again.

I wasn’t. I didn’t.

Photography

“We haven’t earned the right to forget”. Guy Le Cuerrec

IF you think the gate is in front of you

look to the side.

If you think the gate is behind you

look ahead.

If you think a window is closed

in your room, it may be open but

hidden inside the closet.

If you think there is a closet

think again

there is a closet.

Surprised

I didn’t expect

to have to be this brave

to live in the world.

I had no idea.

I didn’t know what I would need,

how much strength it would take,

how deeply I would fail,

how inadequate I would feel.

I’m not ready.

I look at ways out;

I look at death,

I look at drugs,

I use every excuse

to flee.

I do it every day.

I didn’t expect it

to be this hard.

My imagination was not prepared

to encompass the misery,

the sheer strangeness

of what happens,

what has happened,

what I can’t make un-happen.

I thought I would be protected.

I thought it would be pleasant.

I thought it would be okay,

that I would have a good time,

be satisfied, get away free of entanglements,

leave a nice footprint

that could be seen clearly

down through time.

I am surprised by the mud,

appalled by the blood,

angry with god for letting this happen

to anyone, let alone people I know and love.

I didn’t expect to have to be this brave.

I didn’t think I had it in me;

I still don’t. But I persist

in spite of every difficulty.

I don’t really know why.

It’s not a matter of a foolish belief sustaining me.

My belief is not foolish. My belief is my survival.

There simply is nothing large enough,

only God the Unknowable

can hold the grand squalor,

the screaming birth,

the wriggling, enduring heart at the center

of this beleaguered world.

I have no strength, no courage,

I have nothing but strategies to avoid

agony, and they don’t always work.

I survive, for a time,

while the world survives

forever, stronger than

I can be, deeper than I can fulfill,

more powerful than my will,

defiant in the face

of my disappointment in myself.

The world and something loving that redeems

all torment,

survives.

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More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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The Many Faces of Poetry – Poems In The Afterlife

Posted: September 10, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 2 Comments

Everything that happens to me is pure bonus because I took such risks with my life that I shouldn’t be here and be as well as I am. Poems are a way of giving back so much that has been bestowed upon me.

There is a flea that alights on me;

former citizen of dog land

it got lost and is attracted

to my hairy arms.

My first instinct is to crush it

but some fleas are crush resistant and

it is futile to try, so just brush

don’t crush and allow the flea

its tiny attempts at life. Some creatures

are matters of indifference to me

unless they irritate or distract

and that is the flea

whose brotherhood is apparently immortal.

The host, too, is immortal so

there is no way to be rid

of fleas.

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More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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The Many Faces of Poetry – Rust/Untitled/Image

Posted: August 27, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 2 Comments

Sometimes I think I’m finished, that the last word has been written, the last kiss has been kissed. Then I tell myself

“Don’t be ridiculous!”. I’m here until I’m not here. Then I’ll be somewhere else, I’m sure of it.

These are recent poems, so recent they’re not even written, or half written.

Rust

How can the world be killed?

Melt the ice caps;

Beauties that we’ve known and loved

will die.

Polar bears will swim to exhaustion,

their cubs will starve.

A beautiful creature is dying,

but is the world dead?

Poach ivory from elephants until

there are no more elephants.

A great and profound beauty is dying.

I feel its death throes in my body, but still

the world can’t die.

There is no end to the world. Perhaps

when a small piece of our planet is murdered,

it diminishes those of us who live in this time,

for we are accomplice to the crime.

I don’t see myself as a world killer.

I see myself as a world maker.

But I can’t stop the tides that are rising,

the beaches that are drowning,

the storms that are raging.

We killed our world for comfort. I did.

You did. I bought into the con

until I saw the contempt in the con.

When I saw the con, I stomped on it like a poisoned artifact.

Earth killer! Murderer! Earth hater!

Is the world dead? It can’t be.

The desolate tide flats where bones show in the mud,

where mangled soldiers lie, where steel and gunpowder

show their leavings. That’s what I see, but that isn’t all

there is to see. Earth still lives.

Untitled

Aug 18 2021

There’s a part of my heart that I’ve never given

because it didn’t exist

until now.

It lives because of you, it was called forth

from my soul’s interior,

a place that yearns to be rid

of the burden of unloved Love.

It is the love that is shaped like you

a burnt silhouette

outlined by my vision

of your love for me.

I want my love for you

to be full like the orange moon

behind smoky clouds

to be full like a dark sky of stars

to be full like only a starving spirit

can ever know to be full.

Image

August 19 2021

Image: woman weeps over body of loved one.

On her knees, she rocks back and forth, hands clasped

The film is silent, black and white

but I can hear

grief, agony of heart and flesh.

Image: child running down a road in terror

fleeing the bombs, the thunder and flames running.

Image: men holding onto the fence

of their prison, drained of life and hope.

Image: mass graves filling as soldiers

toss bodies, casual

as farmers disposing of chaff.

Image: as camps are liberated

prisoners barely able to walk

to their freedom.

Image: filmed from bombers, napalm cannisters

topple end over end

incinerating jungle canopy and all beneath.

Image: B17 over Germany loses its wing

tumbling. No parachutes.

Image: There is nothing

I’ve seen the images

thousands of times

I rock in my chair before the screen

Image image image image

My eyes have become two people

each one has a mind

Their minds are pasted in surrounding spheres

of image.

I choose to sit here

and partake of the images

I choose, I’m just a modern person

I live my life on the ordinary street

safe for now from everything

but image.

before everyone knew

Image would wrap the world

Engulf and change our history,

turn it from experience into Image,

leaving us to feel

just a bit hollow

even though we are filled beyond satiation

with Image..

The Many Faces of Poetry – So Many Poets

Posted: July 23, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 2 Comments

So Many Poets

By Arthur Rosch

Only I understand my own poetry.

If I read another poet

and get to the end of the poem

without being bored,

that makes her

a good poet. People tell me that William Butler Yeats

was a great poet but I’ll be damned if I understand him.

There are poets who play games with words

in such a way that the poetry bends the wind so that it ties knots in itself.

Listeners are embarrassed at their lack of comprehension.

So they applaud, to hide their gullibility, and the poet goes on to become a great

poet with audiences at colleges and books on shelves at stores.

Another kind of poet writes in plain English

but his narcissism makes him seem

as if he’s holding back a fart.

For god’s sake write in plain English. Or French. Or Serbo-Croatian.

Let’s start again.

I love MY poems. I love Pablo Neruda’s poems, just because I do.

e.e. cummings? Hey, come on. What a goofball. And Bukowsky; that’s as close to

real as poetry ever gets.

There are too many leaves and geese in Mary Oliver’s stuff. She’s obviously wise;

I hate poets who are wise. They fill me with envy. I’d like to be wise.

I don’t like poetry very much. There’s such a to-do over it, but hardly anybody

gives a poet money. Rich poets are always terrible. It isn’t about the poetry. It’s about the poet. We need poets,

badly, desperately. But we don’t need poetry at all. So I guess the best thing

is to be a poet who doesn’t write.

Just don’t tell anyone about me.

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Arthur also has writing credits in Exquisite Corpse, Shutterbug, eDigital, and Cat Fancy Magazine. He has written five novels, a memoir and a large collection of poetry. His autobiographical novel, Confessions Of An Honest Man won the Honorable Mention award from Writer’s Digest in 2016. His other works include his memoir, The Road Has Eyes, and his science fantasy novel, The Gods of Gift. Arthur’s lates release is a poetry and photography collection Feral Tenderness.

More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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