of the Poets Heart
of writing the novels of youth,
The poet readies himself for a test, a
series of tests that will determine whether
he will have good judgment or the desire
to make bad ones.. Standing next to the
great tower where the businessmen go ,
he remembers feeling that he was separated
from the bay of his aspirations by a secreted
fluid. The fluid that names the strangers
that pass by him; the characters of the novels
that he burns to write. When, he thinks, I am
bored of you I will no longer want to depict
you. You bore me as you divide into those
who know and those who don't care to know.
They struggle for control over the poets fiction.
Just as suddenly he hears an accident
at the intersection and watches the people
leap to save those trapped in a car. They
move quickly and without regard for their
safety. The poet comes to the conclusion that
the people are better than he is. That he must
use his privileged position to free the people,
free the soul of the people, through outstanding
The constituents of the universe he knows,
that crowd in on the poet, begin to make
him edgy. Where is the wisdom that shows
us what animates the universe that surrounds
us? Would not this knowledge take away the
pervasive glum nature that hangs as the
blankets hang from the old transient hotel?
Perhaps things are wrapped in a magnetic
coil that attracts opposites every step. In
buildings occur activity the poet knows of
but has no affection for. Do they not make
him suffer for the addictions they cultivate?
Hail the constraints that contradict the poets
imagination! The tribe is possessed of them
and fire the poet up with insidious intent. Would
they not fly from a spot they have found for
themselves, that protects them from the worlds
imagination? The poet searches the treasure
horrid of the worlds culture to discover jewels
that will capture his spirit and send it out through
radiant lines into the darkness of the world.
What suspicions grip the people!
A good nature could be deeply cooked in its pulp.
A spirit could become a revengeful thing.
Then he understands
his privilege. On the
Old novelists of the old world; glory to you
and your deeds! In my great quandary I have
turned to you; men and women emerge into
mind on strong rhythms conjured in the darkest
rooms of the city. Old brothers signal to me,
still, the valence of the old world.
I hear the drums from many epochs; they
reach my ears and pierce through the clog of
the new world. Noise! We are destroyed by it
and are rescued by soft hearts along the
banks of a great river contemplating lovemaking
and conversation before the armies descend.
Mad-- the darting traces of machines have
made me mad and are met by the images from
movies! I hear you , old ones, through the
the verisimilitude: is not that voice?
New poet, be large and unintimidated by the
powers of the world. New poet, learn the secret
nature of the worlds distress and find compassion.
New poet, find the tools that will experience the
worlds delight and its pitiful suffering!
What is the present
but a series of permutations
You fallen idols and collection of odd faces
that leer at them! So the poet thinks when he
remembers, just yesterday, the events that
provoked his imagination. And now sitting in
his apartment and looking out over the familiar
landscape, hearing conversations from the
street, he begins to understand the way that
time fades. That it is a reality and not simply
a bitter and cruel concoction. Do my passions
and heavy thought fade too? He wonders.
Density of its events obstruct his desire to
roam in the forests of his mind to grasp the
authentic myth that signals the voluptuary of
stories and thoughts.
Am I not of the community that passes
through me even as I think about ancient
cities? Bloodied and disillusioned community,
I should rush into your street and ask, what still
l inspires you? What is it that keeps your
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November 22, 1998