Editor's Note: Look for John Lundberg's poetry column every Sunday on Living.
Celebrities often forget that being famous doesn't mean you're good at everything. It's why we have Dancing With the Stars, Roseanne Barr's national anthem, and Alyssa Milano's Major League Baseball clothing line. So it's not surprising that some of our most praised and self-obsessed, thinking they had something deep to say, have tested the waters of poetry. The list is, in fact, a long one, featuring Ally Sheedy and Charlie Sheen, Suzanne Somers and Viggo Mortensen.
As you might expect, the poetry "establishment"--primarily the poets and critics that orbit and inhabit academia--doesn't welcome celebs with open arms. In some cases, it won't even acknowledge their existence. The Poetry Foundation's Best Sellers list, for example, refuses to include celebrities. Elitism? In part. I can't tell you how many times I've heard accomplished poets like Billy Collins--a former poet laureate for God's sake--get ripped for being too readable. It's also jealousy and frustration: if you'd worked a lifetime on your craft only to get outsold by Jewel--by about a million copies--you'd understand. And finally--let's be honest--celebrity poems can be really, really bad.
Leonard Nimoy (Star Trek's Mr. Spock), a few decades ago, went where no star had gone before in penning a series of poetry books, including Will I Think of You and Come Be with Me (from Blue Mountain Press). Here's a snippet:
I love you
not for what
I want you to be
But for what you are...
Did he find that on a candy heart? And here's a rhyme-tastic excerpt from Charlie Sheen's work:
...Teacher, teacher, I don't understand,
You tell me it's like the back of my hand.
Should I play guitar and join the band?
Or head to the beach and walk in the sand?
Suzanne Somers chose free verse for her book of poems called Touch Me (Workman Publishing). Here's an excerpt from "Organic Girl." If you thought the internal monologue of the woman behind the Thighmaster might be interesting, this poem sets you straight:
Organic girl dropped by last night
For nothing in particular
Except to tell me again how beautiful and serene she feels
On uncooked vegetables and wheat germ fortified by bean sprouts--
Mixed with yeast and egg whites on really big days--
She not only meditates regularly, but looks at me like I should
And lectures me about meat and ice cream
And other aggressive foods I shouldn't eat.
Best Actor nominee Viggo Mortensen takes his poetry more seriously than Sheen and Somers. He self-published Ten Last Night, his first book of poems, back in 1993 and in 2002 he even started his own poetry/art press. His writing, like his acting, is intense. Here's an excerpt from an early poem called "Embrace":
he rain is infected
with bacteria
from secret experiments
of lonely men
and women.
...with swollen
1. ed tongues.
Quietly,
they devour
each other.
Grateful
spasms,
violent motion
of interlocking,
clawing,
taunting.
Rowr! Steamy! Viggo's not so bad. And I'm happy to report that some celebrity poetry is actually pretty good.
Singer-songwriters in particular tend to make the transition more smoothly. Jeff Tweedy of Wilco and Billy Corgan of the Smashing Pumpkins have both made the jump. Tweedy's book Adult Head from Zoo Press--a legit poetry press--isn't a bad first foray. Here's an excerpt from a poem called "The Black Hours":
...trying
to climb into the unlit sky
you can see
there's so much less to this than you think
your mind's a machine
that's deadly and dull
it's never been still
and its will has never been free
it's almost dawn
and it's snowing again
There's a lot to like here. Tweedy is smart and has a quirky way of looking at the world. He conflates ambitious themes with everyday thoughts ("there's so much less to this than you think"), and I like the strange move to "and it's snowing again." Set to Wilco's music, "The Black Hours" could be terrific. Without the music, it reads a little naked, like the work of a great artist who's out of his element.
There are songwriters whose work translates to the page extremely well. Bob Dylan, maybe the best lyricist of the 20th Century, is rightfully included in the Norton Anthology of Poetry. Here's his beautiful song "Boots of Spanish Leather":
Oh, I'm sailin' away my own true love,
I'm sailin' away in the morning.
Is there something I can send you from across the sea,
From the place that I'll be landing?
No, there's nothin' you can send me, my own true love,
There's nothin' I wish to be ownin'.
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled,
From across that lonesome ocean.
Oh, but I just thought you might want something fine
Made of silver or of golden,
Either from the mountains of Madrid
Or from the coast of Barcelona.
Oh, but if I had the stars from the darkest night
And the diamonds from the deepest ocean,
I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss,
For that's all I'm wishin' to be ownin'.
That I might be gone a long time
And it's only that I'm askin',
Is there something I can send you to remember me by,
To make your time more easy passin'.
Oh, how can, how can you ask me again,
It only brings me sorrow.
The same thing I want from you today,
I would want again tomorrow.
I got a letter on a lonesome day,
It was from her ship a-sailin',
Saying I don't know when I'll be comin' back again,
It depends on how I'm a-feelin'.
Well, if you, my love, must think that-a-way,
I'm sure your mind is roamin'.
I'm sure your heart is not with me,
But with the country to where you're goin'.
So take heed, take heed of the western wind,
Take heed of the stormy weather.
And yes, there's something you can send back to me,
Spanish boots of Spanish leather.
"Boots of Spanish Leather" not only works well as a poem, it shows some real knowledge of poetic form. It uses the rhythm, rhyme scheme, refrain, and narrative movement of a traditional ballad. Check out the similarities to the medieval Scottish ballad Sir Patrick Spence (note: Sir Patrick sounds better if you read it with a gritty Scottish accent). Like much of Dylan's work, "Boots of Spanish Leather" is both whimsical and emotional, and when the title image finally appears, it's both rewarding and suggestive. Dylan once wrote: "Yippee! I'm a poet, and I know it/Hope I don't blow it." He doesn't.
Husbands and wives, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, all of you, full of life and joy and wanting elusive and changing morrows, oh that you were present birds such as Romeo wished hew ere and that you had never left home. These distant changing morrows yield too frequent tears. Tears….
But do not come through Dover. Those who do come home early may pass through this place, an unseen symbol (no photographs said the Decider) of the debacle far away, the crime thus far of this century. Those brave young lovers who pass through Dover, unable to anymore love in life, unable to share a sweet morrow with a lover, will always be in the hearts of their lovers and loved ones. And too there will be those tears. Of grief the tears are heartbreaking, gut wrenching and inadequate. “Everybody Loves a Lover” sang Peggy Lee. And do we do. And we too cry.
Frank Sinatra sang a song about young lover but not written in the context of war. Rodgers and Hammerstein captured a sense of caring for other lovers, other loved ones-as we care for and love our young in Iraq. Sinatra expresses empathy and compassion. Change a word or phrase if you want (I will later) but the original lyrics convey to me this sense of caring and concern. I heard it the other night and thought immediately of our brave young in Iraq. Sometimes a melody or lyrics will take you to a place not intended by the singer or lyricist. Too, I thought of an earlier war and how it resolved with many dead loved ones and many dead lovers forever lost to their loves. He begins:
Hello young lovers whoever you are/I hope your troubles are few/All my good wishes go with you tonight/I’ve been in love like you
Be brave young lovers and follow your star/Be brave and faithful and true/Cling close to each other tonight/I’ve been in love like you
Dylan. It was 1961, and Dylan played at the “Café Wha?” In Greenwich Village. My sister and her girlfriend were going to be at the Wha? to read some poetry they had written. We were less than half an hour away and Brian and I would check the Village out every once in a while. Knowing my sister would be at the Wha?, we checked it out. It was a coffee house and did not serve alcohol. My sister and her friend didn’t read their poetry yet and there was a performance going on; a guitar was probably part of what was going on. It was a while ago. Was Dylan there? Could have been but I don’t know and it would have been meaningless to me anyway. Like others he was just an unknown guy looking to play gigs. (I was in Asheville recently and that city really did remind me of the Village the way it was back then.) The Wha? Wasn’t the biggest place in the world-kind of small. This was not a doo wop environment which was my comfort zone. Interest in the Wha? I would guess was a bit of east coast wonderment at the west coast beatnik and flower power cultures. Some people couldn’t quite nail it down-that is, just what was going on then. I was one of those. I think it was rear view mirror kind of thing. It went by and only when you looked back did you realize what it was. Today I can listen to Dylan and enjoy him because I’ve learned to pay more attention to the lyrics-yes they resonate.
Not too many years later, Muhammad Ali, who, by self- proclamation, was known as “The Greatest”, wrote poetry:
Clean out my cell
And take my tail to jail
‘cause better to be in jail fed
Than in Vietnam, dead
It too was an unpopular war. The draft was in effect. He went to jail for a while and he lost his right to fight-for a while.
And so wars go on
And lovers are separated
-for a while
Hello young lovers wherever you are.
I hope your troubles are few.
All my good wishes
Go with you tonight
I’ve been in a war before
Be brave young lovers and follow your star
Be brave and faithful and true
Cling close to each other tonight
I’ve been in a war like you
(Thanks O&H and Old Blue Eyes)
The spell checker went bonkers with Wha?
Tip the waiter!
Bad poetry such as McKuen's and the examples cited in this post make me think of trees without roots or branches. They have no roots because they draw little or nothing from the wisdom and techniques developed through centuries of great poetry, and they have no branches because they don't extend language or perception in new ways.
That being said, I find myself struggling to stay interested in modern poetry. I still have a subscription to Poetry magazine, but most of it seems to be written by people and for people in a small, self-sustaining, elitist clique who would rather allow the art form to refine itself into extinction than to allow it to connect with people outside academia.
Sounds like you're jealous of Viggo. Just because he's hot and well known, doesn't mean he can't also be a good poet. Now stop reading that Vogon poetry!
Diana Divine, Los Angeles, CA
Most celebrities stringing words together are not poets.
Writing poems does not make one a poet, but speaking from the bottom of your heart does.
True poetry does not come from the throat, it comes from the depth of the heart and soul.
Poetry is not made up of words.
Poetry is made up of feelings from your heart, soul and spirit.
Poetry is the vessel of the spirit of life, expressing the essence of human existence.
Man, you are one hot guy...end of story.
jumbo shrimp
compassionate conservatism
celebrity poetry?
Pretty good, eh?
Reading this article has proven to be quite therapeutic; I laughed my ass off! Thank you! I am sick of the culture of personality three-ring-circus; imaging any audience is willing to pay to read the lame attempts of a few recognizable public faces. David Bowie or John Lennon posses more prowess and power in their words than most contemporary, published poets of note. You may want to add the late singer/songwriter Jeff Buckley to your list of worthwhile young talent. He did study the art and has proven to be quite the expressionist.