The San Francisco Beat Poets
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- Опубликовано: 12 сен 2024
- Once dismissed as cultural ephemera, the San Francisco Beat Poets now speak to a country whose entire democratic structure is threatened. America is becoming the exaggerated self-parody which the beat poets used as a rhetorical device-an enormous sick joke. Noam Chomsky, not given to hyperbole, calls the Republican Party the most dangerous organization in human history. Tory Britain, eager to become a vassal of America’s Joker-in-Chief, is racing in its footsteps. It was this sense of an ominous and escalating deja-vu that sent me back to the beat poets and to the talk that I gave at English and Scottish art colleges half a century ago.
Thank you for this wonderful video!
It is too much to bear for most. The Truth is too much to bear for most. To acknowledge the Truths revealed in this presentation would destroy the illusions that most build and defend with their lives and thus they cannot, will not, must not expose their fragile selves to such. Their carefully constructed dreams would be blown away like the many poor souls at ground zero in the images at the beginning of this work.
That whole statement is Gay dude. Sorry someone needs to tell you.
@@mark-c802 So...what do you and (edited) Glenn do for laughs, Mark? Oh, I know: watch a documentary that begins with 'Noam Chomsky, not given to hyperbole...' Since the sound of skin-on-skin mediated only by Vaseline grew too loud after that, I'm outta here.
Should poetry exist? If so, whose? What role does the reader play in qualifying the work(s)? What about canon? The gatekeepers? What will AI do to poetry and poetics? If poetry is called poetry, is it poetry for others? Isn't poetry just a product of poetics? Does a static poetics, and thus a static poetry, exist? Whose art? Whose interpretation? Whose world? What function does the context play in the reception of language, the qualification of 'art'? Does art exist? Should it? Why and why not? Is art inevitable? Is miscommunication, exclusion, needed for one thing to be not the other thing? If art is inherently exclusive, what should we exclude? People? Or conventions? Or contexts outside of the now? Please answer these questions...we are trying to find the answer...
I am a Beat Poet and I write to express myself to bring out imagery feelings of love, anger, loss, despair, loneliness and the beauty I see, the injustice, the terrible, the hurt, the abandonment, etc. I only speak for myself. I cannot speak for other Beat poets or artists I can only guess. Maybe this helps you.
Mostly it is spontaneous.
It is human.
Nary a sound
What? I'm listening right now. No one has had any trouble.
@@JohnLelandWhiting I believe Etienne was referring to the deafening silence in the comments section here.
I remember the Beat Generation of the 1950’s and the beatniks who read Kerouac and listened to the cool jazz of Chet Baker. I was just a little kid in the 1950’s but I learned to stay away from teenage beatniks. Beatniks were mean sadistic violent teenagers who liked to hide and beat me up and knock me and other little kids down on the sidewalk. They were a bunch of cowards when 5 teenage beatniks had to beat up a little 8 year old boy to get their kicks. And these beatniks all worshipped Kerouac books so whenever I saw one of his books in a library or bookstore I tore out the pages and defaced his books as much as I could when no one was looking. It made me feel good to do this to the books of the beatniks god, Kerouac. The beatniks also liked the cool jazz of Chet Baker snd whenever I saw one of his records in a record store I would slash the record with a knife when no one was watching. The beatniks hated me and made fun of me because I liked early jazz as a kid and bought 78’s by Louis Armstrong and Bix Beiderbecke in a Salvation Army store. The teenage beatniks would wait for me walking home with my jazz 78’s and grab them from me and break them on the sidewalk then beat me up. I have hated Jack Kerouac and his mean sadistic violent followers my whole life. They are cowards who get their kicks beating up little kids like I was in the 1950’s. I just wish that as an adult I could have run into the god of these sadistic mean violent beatniks, Kerouac just once.
\that is not the Beat Generation I knew. I was a teenager that loved little kids and became a beat poet.
@@yourmother2739 it goes deeper than that. Those beatnik teenagers hated me for a specific reason. They all liked the cool jazz of Chet Baker and Gerry Mulligan of the 1950’s and hated me because I liked the 1920’s jazz of Louis Armstrong and Bix Beiderbecke. In the 1940’s there was a real jazz war between those who liked early jazz, called mouldy figges, and the moderns. Each group thought their music was the only real pure jazz and started fighting, sometimes physically each other. Memories of that conflict were still around in the 1950’s. Those beatnik teenagers who attacked me were only carrying on a continuation of a war started in the 1940’s and just went on. I was the enemy to them. No matter I was a little kid. I was the enemy, a person who liked early jazz. I provoked them too. Every time I saw one of them I yelled at them that their music was crap noise. As Kerouac was their god I naturally hated him too. I wonder if Kerouac was even aware of the Jazz civil war of the 1940’s between those who like the old jazz of the 1920’s and the modern jazz of the 1940’s and 1950’s. I would have told him the people who read your books, the modern jazz fans, are my sworn enemies. The war finally ended in the 1960’s when the people who liked the early jazz started dying off from old age.
I don't know who you encountered and where but, as my documentary demonstrates, the Beat poets of the 50s were Zen nonviolent pacifists.
@@JohnLelandWhiting - the poets might have been nonviolent but the beatniks who worshipped them were mean angry sadistic antisocial animals who would knock little kids like me on the ground then beat them and kick them. This happened to me when I was 9 years old and returning from a Salvation Army store where I bought jazz 78’s for a penny and had them in my little red wagon. The beatniks hid and then ran out and knocked my wagon over and broke my 78’s then knocked me on the ground and beat me up. I know their god was Kerouac. When I got older I wish I could have met their god just once in an alley and had a baseball bat.
@@jazzguy1927 Either you made that up or whoever you met were not Beat Poets.