January 19, 2011
too early in the morning and I’ve yet to finish a poem this week
It’s about two in the morning, I’ve a terrible headache and find myself gravitating to yet another mad writer. I had to put down my William Carlos Williams volume II because his imagery is enough to stagger my further ability to parse more poetry. Some poets I can sit and read through masses of their work, enjoying quite a bit of it, while others (like WCW) I have to ingest more slowly; make a complete study of his form and ability. But WIlliams was not mad and I’ve alluded to the insanity of another poet I’ve decided to start a study of now. Anne Sexton.
While being quite familiar with her works already and her death, there was scan familiarity with her and her somewhat unique dedication to her work. I’ve started with a perusal of her letters (what has been published) for now as I am not sure I can intake the severity of her work tonight. After all, I do want to sleep.
My writing method and Anne’s seems similar in its obsessive rewriting and need to solidify the line and word structure. So this might be a positive influence on my poem but an ill advised influence on my mental state. Time will tell. I don’t think I’ve found a better influence than WCW in that I don’t write much like him and most certainly do not share his method or ability. WCW was much more prolific than I have ever been, Like Anne, I cannot leave a poem alone until it is it’s own and I can no longer own it. Leonard Cohen is also like this in writing – I envy those that can write a completed poem nearly daily.
on that which has been plaguing my sleep…
Over the past few nights I keep dreaming that I am being pursued into hell by an enthusiastic and stunningly wretched demon or the devil himself – trapped in a wasting forest, mired ankle deep in mud and telephoning for a savior that can only quote useless scripture, my leg is grasped tightly by a minion looking for a replacement limb, a leg I think – where mine is already damaged, its is worse, its whole self is distorted and seems to be linking itself back together through the bodies of others, in its basement is kept the most vicious of animals and the floors are bathed in blood and alcohol. These dreams are not tempered by visions of former life or current joys, impenetrable in terror and my sleep is abating in restfulness.
so I don’t leave this post on that note…
I’ve missed a magpie- I had no ideas for an image that is so familiar to me – well, there were ideas but they weren’t good verse, at least in my view. I am not sure that the photo of old friends bundled in winter conversations in sepia tone is going to be much easier for me either.
I’ll come up with something. This day, after I sleep is going to have to involve a letter to my aunt and some time with the typer. No matter what comes out.
January 9, 2011
dream
I dreamt I was playing an old guitar, missing the G, for some old friends. They asked me to sing “wish you were here” to which I obliged. One friend, Kevin, came in perfectly with the solo. Tho each guitar was out of tune, the combined sound was emotionally stirring. In the dream I wept as I sang.
In dream I was older while my friends were younger, before their own malady, as I don’t see them as cripples but as men.
August 14, 2010
post #212
and I hate elevator music.
Fragrant cyclamen
line the walk, pointing
toward the sun.
– Hoc Scripsi
I drink from a coffee cup that I bought while vacationing in the Outer Banks, North Carolina – fittingly, imprinted on the mug is – “North Carolina”.
life changes so quickly and every morning I think that if I don’t get out of bed it will cease to change at all. Of course I am incorrect, of course I eventually get up, get dressed and enter a day already begun, of course I’ve missed breakfast.
I love breakfast as I usually eat it with my son who lately has been unable to rouse me from my morning delusion. If only I could get to the mind correcting coffee before I flail about in fantasy land where things only make sense the more schizophrenic it is.
‘Frank and Earnest’ and “The Other Coast” comic strips have spider punchlines today.
July 16, 2010
ab initio
Been sleeping in too late all this week. unable to shake myself from the bed at a reasonable hour – I don’t know what to blame. My dreams are intense like the greatest movie you’ve ever seen only I’d rather not be watching them. Some people don’t dream, how I envy them at times.
If I knew then what I knew now, how much more I would know now.
on one blog I read nearly daily there was a great question – what is a long poem? I think it was misread by the majority of commentators as – the long poem – and also confused by many with the epic poem and the narrative poem but here was my response and I feel like quoting myself today so….
I’ve been referring to my poems as short and long and now reading through these comments I think I ought to start referring to them as short and longer poems. I always viewed the long poem as a relative term in accordance with the normal output of the poet. For example, Gerog Trakl’s poetry never ventures into the type of long that most people are talking about here but his psalm is considered long.
I think to define the long poem as rigidly as having to contain a certain number of lines is a bit incorrect as the term long poem is merely descriptive and not definitive.
Maybe long is when you see a poem and realize it is several pages long or longer and you say to your self – holy fuck do I have time right now?
I probably don’t add much with my comment above but I thought it interesting enough to bring over.
I keep thinking of shaving off my beard but am afraid that my son wouldn’t recognize me and my wife wouldn’t kiss me. mostly lacking the energy to alter it so it grows longer.
I wrote this poem in February when news first came around of F. Castro’s improved health and lately there has been more of him in the news and on the Cuban Television so I thought it apropos.
it seems (prisoners of consciousness)
for Orlando Zapata and Fidel Castro
F. Castro is
doing well
it seems
Cuban dissidents are
still dying
in prisons
it seems
R. Castro blames others
for the blood but not
his blood
it seems
all the while we
mostly remain silent
it seems
– Hoc Scripsi
So, here are my questions. What is the long poem to you? what is Castro to you? what is God to you? what is poetry to you? What is the sun to you? Have you listened to Sparklehorse’s last album yet? What is sleep and dream to you?
write what you want.
where you want.
ode to SAMO.
ode to illogical graffito on bathroom walls.
four letter words written in crayon.
or carved into the paint by those with more time.
– Me
the platitudes of willful resemblance 