Dekklun Cuinn, author of several volumes of poetry has recently resurrected a character who can no longer remain silent: Anti-Poet Nemo Bopp.
A character often haunting Sherman Oaks' Chimneysweep Lounge on Woodman Ave. is indeed in great company among several fellow poets, jazz musicians, brilliant actors, comedians and local stool warmers. "The Sweep" is a friendly and popular bar in Sherman Oaks where Nemo Bopp has been known to partake in a healthy share of Scotch whiskey whilst, reciting his current bleed of societal soap box.
Nemo Bopp has a lot to say these days and for him poetry is truth served cold and raw, carved with the sharp blade of perspective and drawn by a bold hand. In short . . .
ANTI-POETRY= Against what Poetry has come to mean.
Anti-Poems, a collection of anti-poetry vignettes cutting deep into the flesh of the current state of disfunction addressing a wide range of issues from pop culture to politics to religion.
Here is a sneak peak into this collection of revolutionary literature now available. Exclusive full author interview on the following link: Interview with Anti-Poet Nemo Bopp
Do not write of despair I tell you. There are plenty of poems and
endless titles on that subject. The world is not reft of such
realities. Nor do we need one more diatribe of how faith saves us from
the cruel caprices of the elements. We are simple creatures who insist
on complicating our nature. The world is not a peaceful place. There
are hurricanes and earthquakes. There are lightening-lit fires and
floods and mudslides. There are avalanches and tidal waves. There will
always be predators lurking in the shadows. The world is not a
peaceful place. Yet, for the most part, we survive. Despite the
propensity for war and self-destruction. We survive. I say this is
enough to make us happy. I say: “Full speed ahead and damn the
torpedoes”.
JRP © 2011
HEMINGWAY BLEW HIS BRAINS OUT FOR A REASON
Hemingway blew his brains out for a reason. The Father of Modern
American Fiction was a fraud. And he knew this better than anyone.
Joyce, Scott Fitzgerald, Celine, Henry Miller—these were the real
groundbreakers. Papa Ernesto was just another adventure writer and
romantic sentimentalist. His prose was simple. His narrative over
dramatic. And the world beat a path to his door and Hollywood showered
him with riches while Miller and Fitzgerald continued to depend on the
kindness of strangers. The Pulitzer Committee awarded him the Prize
for The Old Man & The Sea. In reality a simple rehash of Melville’s
Whale. The façade was wearing thin and there was little left in Papa’s
creative juices. Was he afraid that someone was ready to blow his
cover, point to the fact the Emperor was naked?
JRP © 2011
I sometimes think we are all kidding ourselves. To imagine that anyone
really cares about all these inner revelations of experience we
transform into something resembling poetry. Go to any local bookstore
and peruse the Poetry section. You will find it tucked away into the
most innocuous corner of the store. Of course there will always be the
required textbook authors: Eliot, Frost, Poe, Whitman, and sometimes,
if you’re lucky, Ginsberg, Bukowski, or Williams. I guarantee you, it
will be the slimmest volume of books. I remember one famous critic, I
believe a former director of the NEA, once commented if all the
so-called aspiring poets among us would themselves delve into their
slim purses with the intent of acquiring, over time, their own
personal library of sorts rather than deferring to a workshop mentor
for a source of inspiration…But then why should we help contribute to
those capitalist pigs of the Publishing Establishment? Never mind the
fact that our Beat Generation brethren were all highly literate and
well-read and one actually had a real job and a house in the suburbs.
Will any of this lead us to a higher sense of vision or a more
purposeful existence? Tune into the 6 O’Clock Evening News to find
the answer.
JRP © 2011
THEY STUDIED HARD, THE MASTERS
They studied hard, the masters. They could recite from memory a
Shakespeare sonnet or the Latin of Ovid or Cattulus. What’s the point
to all this? Simply this: imagine an architect, a carpenter, a
virtuoso musician—for that matter any skilled professional—without
some understanding and respect for the evolution of their art. Could
their skill-set advance without such knowledge? Wouldn’t their
understanding of the medium in which they worked allow them a greater
ability to forge a new statement, to convey a new observation of
sorts? Or have we reached a point in our 30-second sound-byte lives
when such study seems irrelevant and time-consuming? I glance over at
my library, grin and sigh.
JRP © 2011
The dead speak to us. The dead speak to us in cut stone and fresh
green sod. In white marble altars. In moss stained granite. The dead
speak to us from the ground. In bronze and copper, in floral bouquets.
The dead speak to us on a mountainside, near a river. The dead speak
to us in an abandoned cave, a broken wooden cross. The dead speak to
us, silently in our thoughts.
JRP © 2011
Comments