Columnist Luke Furman determines whether Jim Morrison’s poetry could get an A in a high school English class or if it would come up short.
Oftentimes the success of one endeavor comes at the cost of another. Jim Morrison could most likely attest to this unfortunate claim.
During his abbreviated life, Morrison excelled in an assortment of areas. He succeeded in becoming a legendary performer, a counterculture icon and an antagonist to Florida decency laws.
But perhaps the Lizard King failed to succeed in an area he held closest: poetry.
Along with his song lyrics — bolstered by Ray Manzarek’s church-like keyboards, Robby Krieger’s bluesy guitar riffs and John Densmore’s drumming — Morrison penned poetic verse apart from his work with The Doors (who are coincidentally named after a William Blake line).
He published two volumes of poetry while living and two more were released posthumously, the first of which became a New York Times’ Bestseller. Even up to his 1971 death, he spent his last days in Paris resting and working on poetry.
Yet, in contrast to his drawn-out howls and visceral shrieks that have lived on through radio and record collections, Morrison’s poetry holds much less significance in defining his legacy. This might suggest the conclusion that he fared better as a singer than sonneteer. But, before conclusions, we should probably thumb through the evidence.
Most of Morrison poetry deals with imagery through the perspective of a man adept in understanding nature, psychedelic experiences and the underbelly of American culture. Poems like “The American Night,” “Ghost Song,” “L' America” and “Power” exemplify the use of these unique elements well and are worthwhile pieces in their own regard. Maybe not taught in an English class, but still worthwhile.
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But the combination of these common elements are overshadowed by Morrison’s overpowering fame and persona. If you know a poem is written by Jim Morrison, there’s hardly any separation between a poetic voice and his charismatic, rock star personality, which actually works against him. The absurdity of his rock and roll antics seems to somewhat discredit the seriousness of his unaccompanied words.
And although Morrison could verbally paint subjective images to his liking, his poetical works do not often touch upon relatable objective truths or insightful existential themes, which should be in accompaniment with the subjects he chooses to talk about.
A direct quote supports this outlook as he once observed, “Real poetry doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you.” This is about as vague as his actual poetry, providing some insight into why no one might have latched onto it over the long decades. Probably because most of the doors open to a dim, empty room.
Among Morrison’s most famous lines first found in his poetry is used as a spoken word section on “The WASP (Texas Radio and the Big Beat)” from L.A. Woman, which contains the lines, “Out here on the perimeter there are no stars, Out here we is stoned — immaculate.” The phrase “stoned immaculate” lives on in popular culture, so at least some of Morrison’s poetry stuck, even though it took the form of a song.
His interlude in “When the Music’s Over” is also impressive. It contains the lines, “Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn, And tied her with fences and dragged her down,” speaking of mankind’s impact on the natural world. Likewise, during his spoken part in “Peace Frog,” he creatively recalls seeing a car accident as a child and how “ghosts crowd” his “fragile eggshell mind.”
Yet, aside from these jazzy bridges, Morrison poems not set to music don’t hold a candle to his verse incorporated into songs. Perhaps they lacked the substance to stand alone? Or perhaps they were too subjective, obscure and bizarre? Not to mention, he rose up through musical fame, which makes his work in a different medium even less validated in its quality.
But, in the end, Jim Morrison died an American icon and his poetry is more widely known than a lot of people who take up the craft as a career. Not all rock stars are poets and not all poets are rock stars, but the two art forms do overlap more often than we give credit and it’s worth paying attention to the outcome, no matter how strange it might seem.
Luke Furman is a sophomore studying journalism and a reporter for The Post. Have you read any of Jim Morrison's poetry? Tweet him @LukeFurmanOU or email him at lf491413@ohio.edu.
