Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Monday, November 1, 2010

102/365 - 106/365


08.20.10
Seventeen egrets
reflect back as seventeen
syllables, resting.

08.21.10
Darting and flinging
his body in the milkweed—
a little warrior.

08.22.10
Sometimes I utilize thousands of syllables and the works still remain a convoluted metaphor without resolution. There cannot be one pure moment of absolute happiness, nor full satiated desire. Both extremes do not exist in the natural world. Both moods are tainted by other emotional states which cloud the surface—they water down the waves of intense joy, depression, excitement, misery.

My writing meanders within these extremes. Collects different random moments and recollections and loosely weaves them together by word association or theme—this is what I aim to show: the more random we try to make out lives, the more similar we are.

We are all fractures of conflicting feelings and vastly unique histories. It is a paradox; we are all the same, because we are all different.


I read a poem recently by Stephen Gibson from The River Styx: “Dueno and Baptisery, Florence”—he uses a similar concept, different planes of perception unfolding various points of view: tourists, rebel youth, a marketing campaign, locals— all components which makeup the scene, all individuals necessary to reach a sense of fullness within the poem’s message—it’s hard to pinpoint one strong example from the full work. Through an individual multifaceted experience an universality should be reached. The poet as a cracked mirror reflecting back the public to itself.

Sometimes 17
syllables are not enough
to express my moods.

08.23.10
Falling into a fist of frustration: every idea I begin to structure out in my head soon falls apart, crumbles under pressure of purpose. That is: does the idea function as a purposeful concept. The internal editor works overtime today critiquing every phrase or verb; random thoughts should appear aimless, without clear purpose. It is up to the reader to apply a function or a goal to emerge from the text.

The manner I treat my impulsive ideas—this is what my students do to their poetry assignments. If they cannot find an immediate moral or point they assume the work is only a collection of words and phrases. They are not taking the second step of processing the information or meditation on possible themes. Which provides a lesson for myself. Even the most decorative language poem contains a point. Decoration in itself is a function. The reader must transcend the situation and the text.


On outside tables
a young grackle laughs and then
steals sugar packets.

08.24.10
Yesterday we found a used book store; in the poetry section I found a collection of verse glossed over in pencil. Almost every page dog eared with notations regarding strategy and technique: metaphor, simile, alliteration. The markings distract the eye in a fashion; they serve as a precise dissection of the verse. Somewhere a poem of my own making lies here, in this event—

Lull of midmorning.
Neighborhood empty. Silent—
yet distant yapping.

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