Tag Archives: Poetry

certainty

certainty

 

temperature outside

neutral to the touch

 

undercurrents

lose subtlety

to the season when wind

exposes each grain of sand

 

*

away from an incident

trauma

nests in the body

now the arbiter

 

truth be told

 

if only

 

other windows

 

*

 

wish you would say something.

 

alone, city street

 

*

before dawn,

 

hot air balloons

drift

 

upriver

 

 

freed from the map

 

 

 

 

post facto

post facto

 

inhabitable space

behind a word

like freedom

 

will no longer hold

 

now, walls

enclose the walls

 

i ask you to remember

the dancer’s movement

 

outside the confines

of a spotlight

 

free of any stage

or constellation

 

attribute, subjunctive

 

 

if i could begin again

 

 

i’d disrobe the dark

 

write my way through

subjective memory

 

 

i’d arrow me an opening,

and move,

there

 

notions of distance

notions of distance

 

whispers

 

where the body hurts,

pattern experience

 

an attempt is only to live

as someone else,

to extend—

an outline of the unknown

 

you sound out the remnant

the brief

figure—

 

passing through the room

an apostrophe interlopes

an alphabet

 

the top curvature of a cloud

 

news breaks whether or not

 

arbitrary reading from left to right

and down

 

a distinct echo

 

hands and mouths,

layers of gods

 

lightning from behind the mesa

 

emergent

notions of distance

 

 

 

ritual objects

ritual objects

 

the histories appear—

 

collective want—

 

in the abstract is One, but

sitting there, spoon in hand

curvature of the known universe

tooth,

mouth,

private historical moment

 

*

 

wondered of dawn, as the edge of

something—

but where begin?

 

small creatures in nested holes

fortify entrances

 

*

 

tables rise through the dark

toward an all-encompassing

in-between event

 

ritual objects such as the Placemat,

words,

 

silence

 

ritual-objects

Bones observed in the San Pedro Wilderness, near Cuba, NM–and digitally celebrated (embellished).

curate

curate

 

at odds on the landscape,

between here and the wellpump

 

what have you

may be enough

 

*

 

 

unwrap the remainder—

how many years now?

descent

of the gift into

memory

 

*

 

 

the point in question was not—

outside of doors,

the home state

changed

 

not the Place,

 

the feeling

 

*

 

 

at the first snow fall,

lines on her hands

unreadable

 

it’s not the matter.

who curates the fixity?

 

directed from within

 

 

uncertain the fate

 

of these trees

Thoughts on the Dynamic Image in Poetry

Thoughts on the Dynamic Image in Poetry

I think it is necessary to learn about poetry in high school. As a developing poet, it is an essential period of safe exploration.
But we must unlearn what we have learned in school, in order to fully participate in the dynamism of living poetry.

It’s true that as members of the human race, we need poems that can be memorized and shared, that connect directly with our own memories and emotions. Canonized poems are the ones we tend to read in school because they are repeated, repeatable; some were subversive at some point but now they are subject to analysis by teachers and students, and thus they become conventional and further from their origins with each reading.

I can think of many “conventional” poems that sing in my heart over many years. Poems I enjoyed for their cleverness, their mastery of form and device. Poems that contain a continuous narrative. Poems that speak to me. Sylvia Plath’s “Black Rook in Rainy Weather”, William Butler Yeats’ “Second Coming”. Theodore Roethke’s “The Waking”. John Donne’s “Daybreak”. These are only a few.

To fully understand the power and purpose of poetry, the poet must evolve over time. The alternative is to stay suspended as if in a clear gel, to relive the same patterns over again. To replay a greatest hits album. To live in a museum of sorts.

I’m no longer infatuated with derangement of the senses—a seemingly dynamic method of poetry–though I love Jack Kerouac, Arthur Rimbaud, my old party friends. Although there is dynamism when tapping into the subconscious, in this method and lifestyle, the experience is too random. If fueled by drugs, is tied up in the ego and is, ultimately, damaging. (Sure love Jack’s “Bowery Blues” . . .).

Some poems have a thesis, a persuasive point they are trying to make. I feel a little sad reading a poem that has the soul of a persuasive essay. I’d much rather read a poetic essay than an essay masquerading as a poem.

Ancient poetry is narrative, formal, memorizable. The most innovative, energetic poetry today is not.

Now, the image is everything. With an image, a poet creates a world. Creates the world.

The dynamic image does not come from a set of stock cultural photos one pulls down from a shelf.

The experience of accessing the image is a channeling—a tunneling—to make room, and then walls slowly peel away from the room leaving only the indifferent universe. And there lives and breathes the Image.

The dynamic image is not recycled or manipulated. The dynamic image is born.

 

 

Future topics: entropy in poetry; insight

 

surrogate

surrogate

 

the photograph shows

irregular glow of lights

on the freeway below

 

but telegraph your lights,

since the wires

can be read

out of context

 

just below, is here

where there is only

ever now

 

man

or beast, split

the double secret

is that I said

I am, to act, con

duit

 

radiance is the artifact

of a former innocent state

 

insects, rodents,

birds have long under

stood–you have to hide

in order to live

 

it’s only

when reaching in

to the spiraled nest

you know how many

want to take your place—

when disrupted, nascent

hives are the epidemic

that is the new norm

such a gorgeous entrance

such a gorgeous entrance

 

epithought

 

as the rain in small

drops inter

ject,

 

hands

that stretch the edges—

 

from within

the witnessed margins

 

she and the heft

without an edge—

 

“the word

moon doesn’t even appear

in the calculations”—

 

to not know what to do

in the collapsing figure,

to admit not knowing

 

indulge not knowing

 

“a gorgeous

entrance”—a decision

 

she places herself along with the furniture,

one with the woodwork she—

 

not so much as a breath and she’s

a no name story

with such big windows

 

 

 

 

Emmanuel Hocquard’s POEM (section 1.) is quoted: “the word moon . . .”

she moves north

she moves north

 

toward the high plain

 

absolved, perimeter lines

where climates

are fixed

 

a deferred hail storm

 

between self

and sky

 

the point of incident

still here,

beneath the pine

 

as interior elements

 

travels through northern

vosotros—

interior codes

never switch

 

and sits, ungroomed,

around the woodfire

 

you can felt the remnants

to house a bird

 

that’s an element

to forget

and learn again