An unseemly squabble.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-17692563#

Hollywood screenwriter Joe Eszterhas has accused Mel Gibson of shelving a movie about Jewish hero Judah Maccabee because he "hates Jews".
Warner Bros recently halted production on The Maccabees, which Gibson was due to direct, saying Eszterhas' script lacked "a sense of triumph".
In a letter to Gibson [ http://www.thewrap.com/movies/article/j ... bson-36949 ], the writer said, "the reason you won't make [it] is the ugliest possible one. You hate Jews".

Gibson

"I would have thought that a man of principle, as you purport to be, would have withdrawn from the project regardless of the money if you truly believed me to be the person you describe in your letter."
"I guess you only had a problem with me after Warner Brothers rejected your script."
The actor added he still wanted to make the movie, just not based on Eszterhas' script.
"Both Warner Brothers and I were extraordinarily disappointed with the draft," he said.
"In 25 years of script development I have never seen a more substandard first draft or a more significant waste of time. The decision not to proceed with you was based on the quality of your script, not on any other factor."

Mel has never read my work.

The actor added he still wanted to make the movie, just not based on Eszterhas' script.
"Both Warner Brothers and I were extraordinarily disappointed with the draft," he said.
"In 25 years of script development I have never seen a more substandard first draft or a more significant waste of time. The decision not to proceed with you was based on the quality of your script, not on any other factor."

Let us remember that Ezterhas wrote the screenplay for Showgirls, and An Alan Smithee Film Burn Hollywood Burn.

I rest my case.

Mel has never read my work.

Nor mine. I'm sure that if he expanded his horizons he could find worse material.

Mel has never read my work.

Nor mine. I'm sure that if he expanded his horizons he could find worse material.

J. Gordon Coogler's works await.

Mel has never read my work.

Nor mine. I'm sure that if he expanded his horizons he could find worse material.

J. Gordon Coogler's works await.

It's probably fair to say that Coogler has received more ignominy than he deserved.

Considering that he took on the task of supporting his mother and two sisters when he was fifteen, that he had any kind of success at all is to be commended.

Any hurried work is going to suffer, and he was doing poetry "as you wait". Obviously, much dreck must have risen to that surface.

But if my own experience is pertinent in any way, there would also have been moments of immersive inspiration. In all likelihood, much of his more carefully crafted work will be worth considering.

The problem of course, is that poetry in general is not particularly well received in today's cultural milieu.

Mel has never read my work.

Nor mine. I'm sure that if he expanded his horizons he could find worse material.

J. Gordon Coogler's works await.

It's probably fair to say that Coogler has received more ignominy than he deserved.

Considering that he took on the task of supporting his mother and two sisters when he was fifteen, that he had any kind of success at all is to be commended.

Any hurried work is going to suffer, and he was doing poetry "as you wait". Obviously, much dreck must have risen to that surface.

But if my own experience is pertinent in any way, there would also have been moments of immersive inspiration. In all likelihood, much of his more carefully crafted work will be worth considering.

The problem of course, is that poetry in general is not particularly well received in today's cultural milieu.

One could argue that it is a measure not so much of the times as of the poetry in question. Writing great poetry has never been easy. Still, occasionally some rare souls have managed to do just that. Were a poet X to compose [in AD 2012] something good enough to be taught in schools in AD 3012, it would be received well enough even now.

Fate is fickle. Jabberwocky enjoys more popularity than the Canterbury Tales.

A thousand years is a very long march for any artist.

Fate is fickle. Jabberwocky enjoys more popularity than the Canterbury Tales.
A thousand years is a very long march for any artist.

Homer is finishing his third such loop. The Gilgamesh author[s?] - the fifth. Du Fu is on his second one. Doable. Besides, who needs the mofers whose oeuvre cannot withstand even a lousy millenium?

Fate is fickle. Jabberwocky enjoys more popularity than the Canterbury Tales.
A thousand years is a very long march for any artist.

Homer is finishing his third such loop. The Gilgamesh author[s?] - the fifth. Du Fu is on his second one. Doable. Besides, who needs the mofers whose oeuvre cannot withstand even a lousy millenium?

If I could impress my own small sphere, and bring them moments of quiet joy, I would be satisfied with that.

My work is not the silk and shimmer of sinuous and subtle evocation. It is the simple homespun of comfort and convenience.

I want to paint a little watercolor on the drab and dreary clouds that crowd our life.

The problem of course, is that poetry in general is not particularly well received in today's cultural milieu.

I believe poetry followed artwork down the blind alley of throwing away the rules. In a way, I sympathize with the movement. Once painting reached the pinnacle of representation, the only way left for avant garde was marching to the rear. As a result, art today has so little structure that the public has no use for it. When children, monkeys, and elephants produce work indistinguishable from a cultured artiste, when the museum going public oohs and aahs over statuary that is but a plinth (the statuary failed to arrive on opening day), the game is up.

Poetry that no longer respects meter, doesn't rhyme, and has no more rules than prose, isn't poetic.

The problem of course, is that poetry in general is not particularly well received in today's cultural milieu.

I believe poetry followed artwork down the blind alley of throwing away the rules. In a way, I sympathize with the movement. Once painting reached the pinnacle of representation, the only way left for avant garde was marching to the rear. As a result, art today has so little structure that the public has no use for it. When children, monkeys, and elephants produce work indistinguishable from a cultured artiste, when the museum going public oohs and aahs over statuary that is but a plinth (the statuary failed to arrive on opening day), the game is up.

Poetry that no longer respects meter, doesn't rhyme, and has no more rules than prose, isn't poetic.

Thank you!

Your point was driven home to me with a magazine given to me, Smithsonian, March 2012 with the Titanic on the cover.

Inside it said this:

"Billy Collins, Smithsonian's new Poetry Consultant, is the two-time poet laureate of the United States. He has been called "the most popular poet in America" by the New York Times.

Although he rarely writes on a commissioned subject, he wrote"The Unfortunate Traveler" (p. 43) specially for our Photography Issue. "I always think that I can't follow orders very well -- which is one reason I'm a poet," he says."

So? Page 43 then.

The Unfortunate Traveler

Because I was off to France, I packed
my camera along with my shaving kit,
some colorful boxer shorts, and a sweater with a zipper,

but every time I tried to take a picture
of a bridge, a famous plaza,
or the bronze equestrian statue of a general,

there was a woman standing in front of me
taking a picture of the very same thing,
or the odd pedestrian blocked my view,

someone or something always getting between me
and the flying buttress, the river boat,
a bright café awning, an unexpected pillar.

So into the little door of the lens
came not the kiosk or the altarpiece.
No fresco or baptistry slipped by the quick shutter.

Instead, my memories of that glorious summer
of my youth are awakened now,
like an ember fanned into brightness,

by a shoulder, the back of a raincoat,
a wide hat or towering hairdo—
lost time miraculously recovered

by the buttons on a gendarme’s coat
and my favorite,
the palm of that vigilant guard at the Louvre.

Read more: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-cult ... z1rsaRgN6L

.

I know what you're thinking. "Surely this isn't representative of his regular work. A poet laureate and the most popular poet in America must have more evocative examples for us."

I looked.

You are invited to look too.

.

Shall I compete? I do not fear comparison with this.

Here's a recent work. Nothing special. I think it's representative.

The Poet is an Octopus

The poet is an octopus,
With psuedopodia stuck out,
Extending his presence to distant realms,
Which then to brag about.

I've got a limb in Heaven,
One in a warmer spot.
And one or two in outer space,
That's why I don't get too hot.

And that's how I can report on,
Those things I shouldn't know.
For the poet is an octopus,
And intrudes where he shouldn't go.

You'll see him at your parties,
Where he'll steal a hug or two,
Though he doesn't bring a gift to leave,
He may just forget a shoe.

For the poet is an octopus,
Setting squeamishness aside,
He looks at things without blinking,
But expects you to let him slide.

NicknamedBob . . . . . January 29, 2012

The problem of course, is that poetry in general is not particularly well received in today's cultural milieu.

I believe poetry followed artwork down the blind alley of throwing away the rules. In a way, I sympathize with the movement.

Once painting reached the pinnacle of representation

, the only way left for avant garde was marching to the rear. As a result, art today has so little structure that the public has no use for it. When children, monkeys, and elephants produce work indistinguishable from a cultured artiste, when the museum going public oohs and aahs over statuary that is but a plinth (the statuary failed to arrive on opening day), the game is up.

Poetry that no longer respects meter, doesn't rhyme, and has no more rules than prose, isn't poetic.

but there is no such pinnacle. there are only local maxima.

The problem of course, is that poetry in general is not particularly well received in today's cultural milieu.

I believe poetry followed artwork down the blind alley of throwing away the rules. In a way, I sympathize with the movement. Once painting reached the pinnacle of representation, the only way left for avant garde was marching to the rear. As a result, art today has so little structure that the public has no use for it. When children, monkeys, and elephants produce work indistinguishable from a cultured artiste, when the museum going public oohs and aahs over statuary that is but a plinth (the statuary failed to arrive on opening day), the game is up.

Poetry that no longer respects meter, doesn't rhyme, and has no more rules than prose, isn't poetic.

Thank you!

Your point was driven home to me with a magazine given to me, Smithsonian, March 2012 with the Titanic on the cover.

Inside it said this:

"Billy Collins, Smithsonian's new Poetry Consultant, is the two-time poet laureate of the United States. He has been called "the most popular poet in America" by the New York Times.

Although he rarely writes on a commissioned subject, he wrote"The Unfortunate Traveler" (p. 43) specially for our Photography Issue. "I always think that I can't follow orders very well -- which is one reason I'm a poet," he says."

So? Page 43 then.

The Unfortunate Traveler

Because I was off to France, I packed
my camera along with my shaving kit,
some colorful boxer shorts, and a sweater with a zipper,

but every time I tried to take a picture
of a bridge, a famous plaza,
or the bronze equestrian statue of a general,

there was a woman standing in front of me
taking a picture of the very same thing,
or the odd pedestrian blocked my view,

someone or something always getting between me
and the flying buttress, the river boat,
a bright café awning, an unexpected pillar.

So into the little door of the lens
came not the kiosk or the altarpiece.
No fresco or baptistry slipped by the quick shutter.

Instead, my memories of that glorious summer
of my youth are awakened now,
like an ember fanned into brightness,

by a shoulder, the back of a raincoat,
a wide hat or towering hairdo—
lost time miraculously recovered

by the buttons on a gendarme’s coat
and my favorite,
the palm of that vigilant guard at the Louvre.

Read more: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-cult ... z1rsaRgN6L

.

I know what you're thinking. "Surely this isn't representative of his regular work. A poet laureate and the most popular poet in America must have more evocative examples for us."

I looked.

You are invited to look too.

.

Shall I compete? I do not fear comparison with this.

Here's a recent work. Nothing special. I think it's representative.

The Poet is an Octopus

The poet is an octopus,
With psuedopodia stuck out,
Extending his presence to distant realms,
Which then to brag about.

I've got a limb in Heaven,
One in a warmer spot.
And one or two in outer space,
That's why I don't get too hot.

And that's how I can report on,
Those things I shouldn't know.
For the poet is an octopus,
And intrudes where he shouldn't go.

You'll see him at your parties,
Where he'll steal a hug or two,
Though he doesn't bring a gift to leave,
He may just forget a shoe.

For the poet is an octopus,
Setting squeamishness aside,
He looks at things without blinking,
But expects you to let him slide.

NicknamedBob . . . . . January 29, 2012

Ogden Nash did better with "My Trip Daorba"

You're right, NnB. You're a better poet than the national laureate.

If I could impress my own small sphere, and bring them moments of quiet joy, I would be satisfied with that.

My work is not the silk and shimmer of sinuous and subtle evocation. It is the simple homespun of comfort and convenience.

I want to paint a little watercolor on the drab and dreary clouds that crowd our life.

NnB,

Your poetry is a balm, an eye opener from a poet's eyes, ears, and emotion. Easy to read and identify with.

Thank you.

Great poem, Bob! I'm not much for poetry myself, but I liked that one.

The problem of course, is that poetry in general is not particularly well received in today's cultural milieu.

In my case it had a lot to do with what passed for poetry when I was in school. Being force-fed Sidney Lanier, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Sara Teasdale does little to excite one's appreciation for the detritus of Erato, Calliope, and Euterpe.

The problem of course, is that poetry in general is not particularly well received in today's cultural milieu.

In my case it had a lot to do with what passed for poetry when I was in school. Being force-fed Sidney Lanier, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Sara Teasdale does little to excite one's appreciation for the detritus of Erato, Calliope, and Euterpe.

Tell me what you think of this one, Gummy. It's from my early years.

Album Pages

The sky was milky blue, with clouds of perfect white,
I knew that it would gently fade, into a misty night.
A day of quaint perfection, to steep our memories,
Of laughter, hands in hands, and smiling in the breeze.

I always love a perfect day. I gather all I can.
Sometimes I have to bend the rules, to make them fit my plan.
A little bit of rain is not a killer of the day.
And splashing through the puddles is a way to make it play.

Even snow can sometimes be a pleasure to enfold,
Perfection isn’t measured by the heat or by the cold.
It’s measured by the moments that are strung up just like pearls,
As are the gilded seconds that young men enjoy with girls.

Every day’s an album page with images to hold.
The sunshine seems much brighter, and the colors much more bold.
We turn the page with sadness til we get a chance to look,
Back upon the memories we cherish in our book.

NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 1, 2004

Poetry, and art in general, is divided into mortal and immortal. And the difference between these is no less than between the mortals and the immortals in any decent mythology. More, the mortals [kind of original sin, no doubt] are doomed to striving.