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

Friday, January 2, 2015

New Year Rains Unfold Outside

Okay. It’s like this: I want to create an epiphany poem for an archetypical hero—a first person account rather than a omniscient third person narration. Maybe only two short quatrains—a reservation or restraining as it were.

Holding back from the full possibility of a river flooding, but simply providing a half-filled glass of water. Three? Yes, perhaps a set of magical three quatrains would work best.
As first person—how much does one individual actually relate out loud? Look! I had an epiphany. It unfolded around me all golden and warm. It transcended me to a higher plane of understanding. For the last two years, critics have held a major discussion over modern poetry, debating if it has become too formulaic and thus failed as a genre. Too many poets. Not enough poetry. I do not want to fall into the pits of that argument. However, from the outside of the bonfire, circling from a safe distance, there is some relevancy to the argument, yes.

     flitting around the room as a sparrow         trapped in my house
From an individualistic standpoint, from this one instance, my persona is talking to himself and therefore understands the epiphany already is in the past. In other words, I need to break any potential epiphany-revealing formula to the audience. For this poem in particular, the reading-audience does not need to understand the scene immediately lends itself to a revelation. They do not need to be carried as passengers in a predictable train ride to the protagonist's ultimate resolution.

But I am lying to myself. Lying to you. I have two versions of the same poem in my head. The potential to deny an epiphany and the want to reveal immediately the goals of a character, his Divine Inspiration. In other words, in the realms of the Ideal Draft, I visualize the poem’s structure as a confessional monologue for a folk hero— he needs to be recognized as such, as a Jack seeking adventure. He is aware of the process of his Journey—yet, the communication of his views of the Journey need not be as readily understood, at first.

• Fires of cypress trees in late autumn
• rust red hue / circles / foxfires / pomegranates

• the glow of rust when you stand in a copse of cypress trees, the surrounding

• Au-tum-nal: the vowels of rust / of transformation

• without angels / no fiery tongues of Gabriel

1. You will not believe—
2. pains in my chest
As well, primarily the book of Seamus Heaney, Sweeney Astray, is playing an important influence. Mad Sweeney climbing yew tree after yew tree evading capture and rehabilitation.

The poem’s purpose is doing the same thing right now, evading firm capture—flitting around the room as a sparrow trapped in my house while the New Year rains unfold outside. Too much excitement and nervous energy to contain.

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