“Does the poet create, originate, initiate the thing called a poem or is his behavior merely the product of his genetic and environmental histories?”—B. F. Skinner

I have never shared my poetry before because I have always felt that—like my art—I can’t always tell when it’s good or bad.  According to a past art prof, all artists are generally unable to tell whether their work is good or bad.  I also believe that sharing unpublished poetry is like masturbation.  It can feel good but most people probably don’t want to see it.  That’s why I’m only going to share previously-published poetry here.  (This way, everything you read was at least good enough for someone to actually publish it.)

The year I graduated high school was a busy year.  It was also the year someone submitted my name to The American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City.  I auditioned and attended their summer program.  I could have entered into their full-time program but opted instead to attend one of the three colleges that said they would accept me.  (Mind you, I only applied to three colleges so no wisecracks!)

Let’s hear it for the powers of extra-curricular activities and earning Eagle Scout!  At any rate, much of my writing was still being influenced by the drug use around me and some of the music I was listening to at the time.  Again, with my material it’s best to imagine it set to music.  This, too, managed to get accepted for publication somewhere; believe it or not!

The Light

Drugged into a dream

roam the magic sky

cannot help myself

can only fly

Know there comes an end

to everything

they say

But

Laugh at death

want it all my way

Physical body sits here

rotting in a chair

mind and soul cannot be

found

anywhere

ceiling is dripping

mind is melting too

Help!

nervous breakdown

 Then again

that’s nothing new

Don’t know why

why do this

No time at all

Sanity is fleeting

Why not end it all

There may not be much sense

in writing what’s now written

Yet

can hardly

help

myself

For now

I see

The light

—W. Scott Phoenix

(1979)

Yes.  I can see now WHY I trashed MOST of what I wrote in the 1970s.  We just don’t sit around smoking grass, listening to Black Sabbath and Rush, and talk about entire universes on our fingernails anymore, do we?  We just don’t use harmless drugs and contemplate suicide or even our navels any more.  Maybe that’s a good thing because any more if you put out a good song about killing yourself some dumbass kills himself to your album and his genetically-inferior parents try to blame it on you and sue!  WTF!?

“The success of the poem is determined by how much the poet felt in writing it but by how much the reader feels in reading it.”—John Ciardi