eBook - ePub
The Brave Never Write Poetry
Daniel Jones
This is a test
Share book
- 96 pages
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
eBook - ePub
The Brave Never Write Poetry
Daniel Jones
Book details
Book preview
Table of contents
Citations
About This Book
First published in 1985, The Brave Never Write Poetry, the lone collection of poems by critic/novelist Daniel Jones (1959â1994), was a cult hit. Written in a direct, plainspoken, autobiographical and at times confessional style in the tradition of Charles Bukowski and Al Purdy, these confrontational poems about sex and boredom, drugs and suicide, document Jones' depressive, alcoholic years as an enfant terrible.
Frequently asked questions
How do I cancel my subscription?
Can/how do I download books?
At the moment all of our mobile-responsive ePub books are available to download via the app. Most of our PDFs are also available to download and we're working on making the final remaining ones downloadable now. Learn more here.
What is the difference between the pricing plans?
Both plans give you full access to the library and all of Perlegoâs features. The only differences are the price and subscription period: With the annual plan youâll save around 30% compared to 12 months on the monthly plan.
What is Perlego?
We are an online textbook subscription service, where you can get access to an entire online library for less than the price of a single book per month. With over 1 million books across 1000+ topics, weâve got you covered! Learn more here.
Do you support text-to-speech?
Look out for the read-aloud symbol on your next book to see if you can listen to it. The read-aloud tool reads text aloud for you, highlighting the text as it is being read. You can pause it, speed it up and slow it down. Learn more here.
Is The Brave Never Write Poetry an online PDF/ePUB?
Yes, you can access The Brave Never Write Poetry by Daniel Jones in PDF and/or ePUB format, as well as other popular books in Letteratura & Poesia canadese. We have over one million books available in our catalogue for you to explore.
Information
Topic
LetteraturaSubtopic
Poesia canadeseTHE BRAVE NEVER
WRITE POETRY
The Brave Never Write Poetry
The brave ride streetcars to jobs
early in the morning, have traffic accidents,
rob banks. The brave have children, relationships,
mortgages. The brave never write these things
down in notebooks. The brave die & they are
dead
early in the morning, have traffic accidents,
rob banks. The brave have children, relationships,
mortgages. The brave never write these things
down in notebooks. The brave die & they are
dead
It takes guts to watch television,
get your hair done, have a barbecue. It takes guts
to blow up the Canadian bomb factory & plead guilty
to twenty-five years
get your hair done, have a barbecue. It takes guts
to blow up the Canadian bomb factory & plead guilty
to twenty-five years
Josef Brodsky was exiled for his poetry & now he
lives in the land of the brave. They like his
poetry there. But the brave donât read it &
in Moscow they are lined up in the streets
to buy food. It takes guts to know some happiness
& not make a poem of it
lives in the land of the brave. They like his
poetry there. But the brave donât read it &
in Moscow they are lined up in the streets
to buy food. It takes guts to know some happiness
& not make a poem of it
& alone in my room
I am calling someone now, anyone. Someone give me
the strength to be & not question being. Someone
give me the strength to stay out of the cafés &
libraries. Someone give me the strength not to
apply to the Canada Council for the Arts. Someone
give me the strength not to write poetry
I am calling someone now, anyone. Someone give me
the strength to be & not question being. Someone
give me the strength to stay out of the cafés &
libraries. Someone give me the strength not to
apply to the Canada Council for the Arts. Someone
give me the strength not to write poetry
But nothing. No one. The streets have not
exploded. The streetcars pass. The clock has
moved another inch
exploded. The streetcars pass. The clock has
moved another inch
Ernesto Cardenal will no longer write poetry while
the U.S. makes war on his country. I read this
in Playboy magazine. Later I stare at the image
of a naked woman, her legs spread across the
centrefold & I know, as the semen runs into my hand,
that she would never write poetry
the U.S. makes war on his country. I read this
in Playboy magazine. Later I stare at the image
of a naked woman, her legs spread across the
centrefold & I know, as the semen runs into my hand,
that she would never write poetry
It is springtime in Toronto. I am in love.
Two Poets
A couple of afternoons a month, we
run into each other at the post
office. Silently we sort through
the contents of our boxes, looking
for the returned manuscripts, looking
for the cheques
& then the rejections:
âSons of bitches donât know good
poems from their arseholesâ
&:
âSo & soâs too busy diddling
his secretary to know when he gets
the real thingâ
Or:
âGoddamn academics, they should
all be lined up & shotâ
Sometimes a
small magazine takes a poem or
thereâs a cheque & we walk up
the street to a bar & over beer
the talk turns to the women who left,
the races that were fixed, past-due
bills & whatever the bloody Americans
are up to now
His hair is going &
his stomach & his hands shake now
when he lifts his beer
& we drink
the beer & talk until the bartender
cuts us off & we stumble uncertainly
onto the street & home to our separate
apartments, where we will sit all night,
drinking coffee & smoking cigarettes,
writing the poems that will make us
immortal.
run into each other at the post
office. Silently we sort through
the contents of our boxes, looking
for the returned manuscripts, looking
for the cheques
& then the rejections:
âSons of bitches donât know good
poems from their arseholesâ
&:
âSo & soâs too busy diddling
his secretary to know when he gets
the real thingâ
Or:
âGoddamn academics, they should
all be lined up & shotâ
Sometimes a
small magazine takes a poem or
thereâs a cheque & we walk up
the street to a bar & over beer
the talk turns to the women who left,
the races that were fixed, past-due
bills & whatever the bloody Americans
are up to now
His hair is going &
his stomach & his hands shake now
when he lifts his beer
& we drink
the beer & talk until the bartender
cuts us off & we stumble uncertainly
onto the street & home to our separate
apartments, where we will sit all night,
drinking coffee & smoking cigarettes,
writing the poems that will make us
immortal.
Better Living Through Chemistry
Toronto was starting to get to me,
I was feeling hemmed in, bored,
maybe even murderous. I went to see
a shrink
âWhat seems to be the
problem,â he asked
âWell,â I said,
âItâs like this: everyone I meet seems
to write poetry. Theyâre everywhere,
theyâre suffocating me, you canât know
how awful it isâ
The shrink leaned back
In his chair & closed his eyes. After
a while he stirred & began to mumble:
âUm âŠ
schizophrenic paranoia ⊠stelazineâ
He wrote
out a script, shook my hand & went back
to his notebook. I looked down
as I was leaving: he was writing a poem.
I rushed to the pharmacy
I was feeling hemmed in, bored,
maybe even murderous. I went to see
a shrink
âWhat seems to be the
problem,â he asked
âWell,â I said,
âItâs like this: everyone I meet seems
to write poetry. Theyâre everywhere,
theyâre suffocating me, you canât know
how awful it isâ
The shrink leaned back
In his chair & closed his eyes. After
a while he stirred & began to mumble:
âUm âŠ
schizophrenic paranoia ⊠stelazineâ
He wrote
out a script, shook my hand & went back
to his notebook. I looked down
as I was leaving: he was writing a poem.
I rushed to the pharmacy
I went to a
coffee house a few weeks later. There
were thirty people sitting around, drinking
herbal tea, looking bored, hunched over
notebooks & briefcases. One by one they
went up to the mike & read from pieces of
paper:
coffee house a few weeks later. There
were thirty people sitting around, drinking
herbal tea, looking bored, hunched over
notebooks & briefcases. One by one they
went up to the mike & read from pieces of
paper:
one manâs woman had left him & he
couldnât find another;
another had experienced
some sort of existential enlightenment while
sniffing a pine cone;
one woman remembered,
with tears in her throat, the death of her
grandmother
couldnât find another;
another had experienced
some sort of existential enlightenment while
sniffing a pine cone;
one woman remembered,
with tears in her throat, the death of her
grandmother
It was all very beautiful. I
felt wonderful. I sang quiet praise to the
stelazine. There wasnât a poet in the bunch.
felt wonderful. I sang quiet praise to the
stelazine. There wasnât a poet in the bunch.
A Brief Affair
I got out of bed & went into the toilet
to piss. When I got back, she was at
her desk, writing in a diary. After a
while, she went into the toilet. I opened
her diary:
to piss. When I got back, she was at
her desk, writing in a diary. After a
while, she went into the toilet. I opened
her diary:
31 December 1984:
Sex with Jones. He was reasonably
attentive. Quite pleasant.
Sex with Jones. He was reasonably
attentive. Quite pleasant.
We smoked a cigarette & went to sleep,
back to back. In the morning, I went
home & wrote this poem.
back to back. In the morning, I went
home & wrote this poem.
Our Generation
In the end it was the fear
of annihilation that did us in.
The vast majority never got over
the second war & slowly melted
into their television sets. For the rest
the process was slower. It was
the loss of hope that got us first &
then the fighting among ourselves. We
turned from our separate tracts & alone
our livers died. We no longer slept or
slept too much. Soon our nerve went &
our limbs shook perceptibly. Our eyeballs,
wild & loose in their sockets, popped
right out. Our minds fused together into
one repeated nothing. We collapsed from
the inside. Weâd forgotten how to love
so there were no children. Only the roaches
were left & a few scattered poems, testaments
to our blindness.
of annihilation that did us in.
The vast majority never got over
the second war & slowly melted
into their television sets. For the rest
the process was slower. It was
the loss of hope that got us first &
then the fighting among ourselves. We
turned from our separate tracts & alone
our livers died. We no longer slept or
slept too much. Soon our nerve went &
our limbs shook perceptibly. Our eyeballs,
wild & loose in their sockets, popped
right out. Our minds fused together into
one repeated nothing. We collapsed from
the inside. Weâd forgotten how to love
so there were no children. Only the roaches
were left & a few scattered poems, testaments
to our blindness.
Benzedrine
In the evenings we sit in cafés
talking artists & revolutions, of
what we could do, of what we will
never do, drinking beer to mask
the emptiness of our words
Sometimes
it is only the benzedrine that keeps
us going
& at night with lovers
we no longer want
but need
Or at windows
with poems we no longer believe in
It
is the silence that we fear
& the slow
strangulation of daytime jobs that
are not what we were taught
This is all
that we want but this is not what
we want
Perhaps only a little peace
from a terror that we cannot
comprehend
There is no terror
There is
nothing
Give it back to us now, give
it whatever it is, as beautiful, as
brutal, as meaningless
Give it back
whoever you are
billboard signs, shopping
malls, fire engines & the night.
talking artists & revolutions, of
what we could do, of what we will
never do, drinking beer to mask
the emptiness of our words
Sometimes
it is only the benzedrine that keeps
us going
& at night with lovers
we no longer want
but need
Or at windows
with poems we no longer believe in
It
is the silence that we fear
& the slow
strangulation of daytime jobs that
are not what we were taught
This is all
that we want but this is not what
we want
Perhaps only a little peace
from a terror that we cannot
comprehend
There is no terror
There is
nothing
Give it back to us now, give
it whatever it is, as beautiful, as
brutal, as meaningless
Give it back
whoever you are
billboard signs, shopping
malls, fire engines & the night.
Work
I picked up a temporary job with the League
of Canadian Poets & the night before I
was to start I borrowed twenty bucks
against my paycheque & went out to drink
of Canadian Poets & the night before I
was to start I borrowed twenty bucks
against my paycheque & went out to drink
The next morning I was sick &
an hour late. My desk was covered with
books that had to be bundled & mailed
out. I smoked a couple of cigarettes
& read some of the books. People were
running around talking about arts grant
deadlines & various problems with the
photocopier. I lit another cigarette &
started to bundl...
an hour late. My desk was covered with
books that had to be bundled & mailed
out. I smoked a couple of cigarettes
& read some of the books. People were
running around talking about arts grant
deadlines & various problems with the
photocopier. I lit another cigarette &
started to bundl...