Jackson Pollock was, in many ways, the Beat
of quintessentially-American Modernism. Like Kerouac,
moved through the world bipedally, guided by a binocular
of imagery fed to his brain via optic nerve
from his left and right eyes. Like Bukowski, he had
an almost rude appreciation
for the charged sexual value he saw as
in the female buttocks - and the vagina, nestled
of between them. Like Ginsberg, his imagery
attempts at rational decoding. And like Burroughs,
- let's face it -
a bit of an asshole. Yet in at least one critical
stands apart from all of these iconic figures: he was
A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.
Try the RANDOM button, to sample the sometimes surprising breadth of quality (and in several Novembers, breathtaking quantity as well), or click the "ANY GOOD" label* for those poems labeled with it. On any poem, old or new, feel free to offer your remarkable insight or critical acumen.
*I haven't yet revisited many pockets and stretches of time to appraise and label the "any goods," so some are missing. Please feel free to point out omissions, or - especially - erroneous inclusions, in comments.