What do we think of this TS eliot prize winner?

I hate to shit on the guy but this is the reason grown men don't read poetry. It's a real shame.

vimeo.com/222025357

Why do poets always insist on the dramatic pauses, etc? Or the extremely emotional-sounding voice. Just read the thing. Larkin did it best: a dry voice getting on with it.

>(nation)
the rest of it is, like, fine, but this really annoys me for some reason

sauce?

>no controversies on naming your award after a notorious anti-semite

World Fantasy award gets shit for their Lovecraft trophies and no one complains about this?

Also fucking lol at 1:36 when someone's phone goes off and the cunts in the first row begin shaking their head. What an absolute farce.

What would Eliot think

Poem at 2:40 is:

Note to self:
If a guy tells you Jack Kerouac is his favorite poet
Chances are he's a douchebag

*cue audience laughter*

This guy represents it all, doesn't he. What a sick age we live in.

He would think about the rats underneath the piles and the jew underneath the lot.

That sort of posturing is the death of art

Identity-poetics community gossip from people who attend Kundiman regularly. Those people fall over themselves to be politically-correct and kind and would never challenge the dude on it. Because he is both a bigger fish and victimhood is something to celebrate and homelessness is a big victim modifier.

When I say he lied about being homeless I mean that he greatly exaggerates the circumstances of it. He was a couch-homie for a bit rather than homeless-homeless for months. Which is a huge distinction.

I'm too curious not to ask: How does a chantard like you know these people?

Friends of friends. The people who write that sorta poetry and think going to tin house every summer is cool and geek out on Twitter about rattle poets respond all know one another. Two of my main dudes are guys like that.

The thing about this sort of art, that sort of performance, and the sort of people who go to watch it is that it's almost entirely negative, accusatory self-hating and emotionally incontinent, all key features of "leftism" (inb4 ).

Already within 3 minutes of speaking he has attacked America (soldiers who ripped a baby in half), Jack Kerouac, men in general (the Orpheus comment), etc. It's just naive garbage, and full of resentment. The reaction to someone's phone going off by shaking heads, staring and tutting is just the epitome of what the reading itself represents, which is an excuse to be nasty, snobbish and resentful and claiming to be the representative of "goodness" despite being weak, self-hating, mentally ill, etc.

The guy was raised by his mother, aunt and grandmother. I was raise in a similar way and almost became a faggot myself, and listening to this guy I am so glad I didn't go too far down the leftie, SJW route.

Damn I don't know what Tin House is (the Jew-owned magazine?) or what "rattle poets" are. Are you trying to write poetry yourself?

Here's Tin House for you, I think it's right up your alley:

tinhouse.com/godfather-votes-trump/
tinhouse.com/paul-ryan/

Tin house is a magazine that also does a retreat/workshop thing. Rattle is another literary magazine, poets respond features timely "interventions" of poets writing about current events like teens getting shot or how trump makes them impotent or whatever.

I really think the idea that people from ethnic minorities, women and LGBT's getting given a free-ride in the literature industry is over played on Veeky Forums....... but the T.S. Elliot prize has turned to shit in a bid increase diversity in poetry.....

telling scrubs to abandon metre was a mistake. pound is to blame for all of these kids

Tin House is a semitic mouthpiece.

he'd unironically be pretty mad to have had his name attached to this work i think

>>Participated in this war crime against art: harvardreview.org/?q=features/poetry/renga-obama
This is absolutely hilarious

Your weather said cool.
Cigarettes, oratory.
Who dubbed them mom jeans?

is there a realistic way to become a successful poet or do i have to step aside for these people?

Pound understood and used metre on a level you can only grope at

I was going to post a meme response but honestly, look around you and where are people like you getting published?

Houellebecq first published his poems in a controversial poetry review which had collaborated with the Nazis. Lovecraft's first writing appeared in a conservative magazine.

Today Veeky Forums is where young white literary men come to express themselves. Unfortunately there's no organized display of work here, but the guy who published his PDF pamphlet of poetry here two years ago (iirc) was well-received and talked about for a while, and I saw that pamphlet on imgur recently and saw that it had received 350,000 views.

He sounds so effeminate, like goddamn.

>Unfortunately there's no organized display of work here, but the guy who published his PDF pamphlet of poetry here two years ago (iirc) was well-received and talked about for a while, and I saw that pamphlet on imgur recently and saw that it had received 350,000 views.
Got a link/title?

*sips wine*
*chuckles to self as frail Asian man describes his public hair*

You aren't contradicting anything in the post you quoted, guessing that was your goal based on your furious tone but could be wrong

The guy that earned it last year is legit.

What is wrong with his voice?

newyorker.com/magazine/2015/05/04/someday-ill-love-ocean-vuong

Unironically good, most of his other stuff is trash though

Simply poetic. If only Thomas were alive to see.

Not that bad desu.

Pound was a bad poet. A cold, dead man. He was a genius, and a genius critic most of all, but his poetry is the least musical I've ever seen.

What kind of work does he do?

>Poems I wrote in notepad while thinking about how lonely I am by Mark Baldyga

It’s pretty funny and sometimes sad. I liked it

I think We let Eliot down.

And this is how we danced: with our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August

turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers

sweeping though my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned

into heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart

there are two headless people building a burning house.
There was always the shotgun above the fireplace.

Always another hour to kill—only to beg some god
to give it back. If not the attic, the car. If not the car,

the dream. If not the boy, his clothes. If not alive,
put down the phone. Because the year is a distance

we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say: this is how
we danced: alone in sleeping bodies. Which is to say:

This is how we loved: a knife on the tongue turning
into a tongue.