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Some writ things 
Night Thoughts
The Upper Falls
Poets Eye
Poets Heart
Political Meditations
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Writers Notebook
Journal of the Poets Heart 

     In lieu of writing the novels of youth,  
the new poet keeps a journal to record  
the precise changes of his own  spirit as  
time begins to dominate him and as he  
loses his fine dreams.  

  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  
other side of all this energy is the future. The  
future machines will be dragged into the future  
by magnificent human beings who will see that  
they come in freedom and openness.  

     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  
that create wonderful combinations  and new  
conflicts? Warriors grasp the problematical world  
and strengthen themselves in honorable pursuits.  
     The man, aspiring to something never attained, 
enters the second life. He dances within the 
dwellings that emerge alive from the deep and 
frozen places of his spirit.  

         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  
spirit alive?  

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David Eide
copyright 1998
November 22, 1998