| Title | : | Living at the Movies (Penguin Poets) |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0140422900 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780140422900 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 112 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1973 |
Originally released in 1973, Living at the Movies was the first aboveground publication of the work of Jim Carroll, a singer-songwriter Newsweek called “contender for the title of rock’s new poet laureate.” In these poems, all written before the age of twenty-two, Carroll shows an uncanny virtuosity. His power and poisoned purity of vision are reminiscent of Arthur Rimbaud, and, like the strongest poets of the New York School, Carroll transforms the everyday details of city life into poetry. In language at once delicate, hallucinatory, and menacing, his major themes—love, friendship, the exquisite pains and pleasures of drugs, and above all, the ever-present city—emerge in an atmosphere where dream and reality mingle on equal terms. It is an astonishing debut by an important American writer and artist.
“Jim Carroll has the sure confidence of a true artist. . . . He is steeped in his craft. He has worked as only a man of inspiration is capable of working. . . . His beginning is a triumph.”—Gerard Malanga, Poetry
Living at the Movies (Penguin Poets) Reviews
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Jim Carroll died last week so I revisited this, my favorite collection of his poetry.
Reading it now one thing that stands out, besides my own abiding affection for the work, is his strange fixation on the word “blue”. Poets should have strange affinities for particular words, using them as all-purpose condensations of meaning, as noun as adjective as whatever. It emphasises the malleable and fluid nature of language, and puts language in its proper place as something that we can use, like paint, to create our own meanings. And though I can only speculate what “blue” meant to him, his very fixation gives it meaning for me.
The Blue Pill
I took the blue pill this morning
I got new angles on the trees across the driveway
Timmie the bear
does his little roll on the rug
and at night
a sound gathers the tiny ambulances
from their homes
it is distant and hollow
a little like the sound
of a perfectly tuned ocarina
This is a perfect little poem, like something a child (on methadone) would write not even knowing he was writing a poem.
There is a languid effortlessness in many of the poems in this collection as they bob and swerve gracefully just out of the reach of meaning, like a sleepy-eyed Point Guard threading through defenders to dish off backhand passes for scores. There is also an offhanded fragmentation to them, which at times can seem abstract, but an abstraction composed of tangible images, vivid images full of surprise that still retain the freshness of new-found thoughts arising of their own volition from a disembodied void. So rather than there being a flouting of meaning, there’s more a suspension of overall meaning (present only as a hidden informant) as the poems glide along supported by imagery and feeling (though to be honest this quality is sometimes ruined by a too-tidy ending tacked on by a too-conscious mind).
Jim Carroll, please rest in peace, and please keep your sense of humor. I only saw him once, and many people in attendance were disappointed because he didn't come to play music. I was disappointed because he didn't come to read his poetry, but rather stories. But I enjoyed it. I remember one about he and Patti Smith lying in bed all stoned watching crab lice make their way through their mutual pubes as if they were slow racehorses. It was funny and it made me squirm.
Blue Poles
Blue poles (well?) on the beach
In a snowless winter and
I’m too cold to ask you
why we’re here but of course “we are”
where on the puzzled reef dwarves either
fish or drown in the abandoned ships
sharks dissever year-old children in search
of “young blood” Jersey acting like Europe
in an instant and lovely Mary kneeling along the quick tide
to be anxious with thoughts of bare oceans
that move as the thighs of an eventual sunlight
like bathers moving closer to their season
when again gulls perch in their lovely confusion
“alone”, as now, the sand sifting through
your fingers like another’s darkness, it’s true,
you are always too near and I am everything
that comes moaning free and wet
through the lips of our lovely grind -
The best thing I can say about this is that after I finished it I was compelled to read through my own early-20s poetry and forgive myself my own embarrasingly experimental extravagances. Carroll does certainly succeed in creating the occasional striking image.
Also, this (from "Maybe I'm Amazed") is just too, too funny:
Richard Brautigan,
I just don't care who you are fucking
in your clean california air -
Amazing. It's so hard for me to understand why he isn't more famous.
-
Poetry. The not so great kind. But nevertheless a solid effort.
Sometimes cruddy poetry leaves you with an inspired feeling about your own. -
Reposting this review: RIP Jim Carroll, poet, punk rocker, inspiration. Thank you for expanding the boundaries of my mind at an early age. May all of the other "People Who Died" be there to greet you.
I read this book when I was twelve years old. An aunt gave me a tattered copy of it, knowing I liked poetry, but not knowing that Jim Carroll's poetry might change the chemistry of my brain cells forever. At twelve, I found it strange and dangerous. By the time I was seventeen, I had researched the time of this poetry: Warhol, Edie Sedgwick, the Velvet Underground and all of the NYC crowd who longed to be living works of art. Suddenly, the life of a small Catholic junkie became the voice of the city itself, and I saw the urban brilliance of it in every stark line. I have kept the same tattered copy close to me all of these years, and it still feels like a crazy old friend you could never abandon, no matter how much money he needed to borrow or how many nights he needed to sleep on your couch. You still love to see him at the door. -
I’ve been a Jim Carroll fan since I was a teen and like a stupid asshole I never read his first book until now. It’s the ultimate Jim Carroll poetry with the veracity of a true immortal—Jim is highly underrated. That is all.
-
Carroll's writing style is sometimes blunt, but often goes off into the abstract in a way that I find too difficult to follow. While certain poems stand out as eliciting mysterious feeling, others left me wondering what the point was, or if the poem was more of just an exercise. In any case, it's decent, but not my favorite.
-
𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺 … 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 … 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦, 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘯𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 … 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳 … 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘖𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺.
-
I’m not the best interpreter of poetry but the stuff I could make out was striking.
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Five stars to titular poem. Cut-ups?
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Dissen mot Brautigan…
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I've heard that you really need to read this book as a companion to "The Basketball Diaries," and I haven't read that book nor seen the movie, so perhaps that is my problem with this book. A strikingly effective image every five pages or so doesn't qualify as poetry to me; the words need to be spot on a much higher percentage than that for me. This book could use some heavy editing but then there wouldn't be enough for a book, I guess.
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His first collection of poem before NOD
The Book of Nods. Although I read it much after Nod.
I find the imagines fresh and abstract.
There is a fantastic sense of scale. I picture a boat in a cup of coffee. A dutch oven being dragged around on the floor.
It is like entering a dream.
The poet is aware of Rimbau, another of the young talented and reckless. -
One of the reasons I tried to write poetry (and if you've read any of mine, you'd know that that's probably not the best endorsement for Carroll's work). Totally inspirational at that time in my life.
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Found a worn out copy in a used book store, owned by a strange old man with two fat cats wandering through the shelves. I sat down in one of his beat up easy chairs and read from cover to cover before leaving buying it.
Love at frist READ! -
Not great. The best poems in the collection are good in the sense that derivations of Frank O'Hara are generally good. The collection was written before Carroll was 22, but that caveat alone doesn't add much to the reading experience. There are good lines, some good poems, but it's uneven at best.
-
Sublime imagery
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Read this and The Basketball Diaries at the same time. Not a poetry expert, but I enjoyed it enough!
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Jim is the man
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I didn't get into this collection until about halfway through. The middle of this book glows.
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These poems made me fall in love with Jim Carroll. I still remember staring at his face on the front of my paperback copy.
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Don't leave Allen Ginsberg alone with a vibrator.
