Poets – Stupid, Stupid People

The passage posted below is written about poets by a poet.

Really, they’re the laziest, stupidest people I know. They became poets in part because they were demoted to that job, right? You should never tell your students to write what they know because, of course, they know nothing: they’re poets! If they knew something, they’d be in that disciple actually doing it: they’d be in history or physics or math or business or whatever it is where they could excel

Of course, this troubled me.  I consider myself a fairly intelligent bloke. My business card says I’m a professor of English at a local college – I must be intelligent.  I know what an antecedent is.  I can quote Shakespeare.  I evecan even employ metonymy.  I must be intelligent.  I’m a poet!!  However, I pondered why I explore literature, why I write poetry. Answer – I’m searching.  I’m striving to uncover what I don’t know about the world, what I don’t know about myself.    The seeds of my poetry are questions.  The poems are attempts to answer questions.

 So, I’m stupid.  Gotta problem with that?

A link to the passage posted above is provided here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/12/poets-really-theyre-the-laziest-stupidest-people-i-know/

First Snow

It’s upon us, like flakes of light from a wizard’s wand.

Evergreens. Slowly, their dark limbs succumb to the weight of this spell. I too am lulled.

The air between the trees, the tall fence, the stone wall – cold and white. The heavens must have shattered. Broken shards sugar all that matters.

The silence – listen…listen.

Hanging in my front yard.

Huff and Puff!!

On Thanksgiving morning, two days ago, I opened my laptop, ready to write a Thanksgiving poem. I allowed my mind to wander: turkey, mash potatoes, crisp green beans, gravy, stuffing, etc. As I figuratively strolled around the dinner table, my mind’s eye was drawn to the window – and there I saw it: the Big Bad Wolf. I saw a cartoon version of the first villain I ever feared. He was skinny and hungry.

Suffice it to say, my Thanksgiving Day poem was written. Its focus – the Big Bad Wolf. Yes, I agree – a strange evolution. Yet, it yielded a pretty good poem.

I was and am intrigued by the process described above.  It’s how I write.  I allow my imagination to take the reins and it leads me to and through the poem I am about to write.  Better stated, the poem poetry writes for me.

Do you have any creative process stories?  Share them here, if you have a mind to.

What do you mean?

Tonight, I read a curious article – well, it’s curious to me.  Titled Why the best art is meaningless, it defends the belief that the best art is, simply stated…meaningless.  While I am encouraged (I sometimes write meaningless poetry), I’m left scratching my head.  I don’t like my meaningless poetry.  I don’t like meaningless art.  I understand that meaning is debatable, malleable, and individual in nature; yet, it still holds, for me, a tangible firmness.  It exists.  Shouldn’t meaning, at least in some form, exist in all art?  I truly doubt that art can exist without meaning.

Please, help me out here.  What do you think?

Here’s a link to the article mentioned above: http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/jonathanjonesblog/2009/oct/29/art-meaning-bob-dylan

The Poet Is Dead – Long Live The Poet

Robert Roper begins a recent piece in obit with a grim truth - poets die young. Many poets die young. “They do, you know – younger than most other people, and significantly younger than other writers (novelists, playwrights, journalists).”  HMMMMM.  Should I be worried? Deeper in the article, Roper continues – “Contemporary psychologists have unearthed strong associations between poetry and introspection, between introspection and depression, and between depression and self-destructiveness. Not all poets are depressives, but there is a statistical connection. If that child of yours is writing a poem at this moment, go into his bedroom right now and stop him! Go on, don’t fool around!  He’ll thank you for it later. Talk up the advantages of biochemistry, or the law. Steer him toward the light.”

I admit, when I was a kid, I wrote some dark stuff – pre-adolescent angst.  I remember a piece in which I compare myself to a candle, a candle that heft a bright flame, yet a poem that’s being destroyed by warmth, the light it must bear.  Finally – nothing but darkness.  It was titled The Wax Soldier of Solitude.  It was terrible, terrible stuff.  Depressing? YES!!!  Thankfully, I’m on the verge of 41-years-of-age.  I’m still writing and I’m happy.  Maybe that’s why I’ve yet to hit the big, big time. Damn joy!!

Roper goes on to discuss Keats, Poe, and Thomas – three poets who bit the bullet early.  Poor guys.  Imagine the words we’d possess today if they all breathed a bit more.

Here’s a link to the article discussed above: http://www.obit-mag.com/articles/poets-die-young-fears-that-i-may-cease-to-be-

And the Tony Goes to – Spiderman?

That’s right.  The web slinger is coming to the Great White Way. Yup - Spidey is going to starch his tights, learn a few lyrics, and crawl onto a Broadway stage. Now, I’m a huge comic book fan, but Spiderman on Broadway doesn’t sit well with me.  I feel, right or wrong, that comic book superheroes may cheapen Broadway.  It’s like ordering a Big-Mac at a fine French restaurant, putting down Shakespeare for a Harlequin Romance, or spreading low-fat mayonnaise when the a jar of the real stuff sits in the fridge. At least Bono is providing the music and lyrics. Can’t be all bad.

Here’s a link to a related article: http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/10/22/more-delays-expected-for-spider-man-musical/

Have You Seen My Mind?

Archimedes by Domenico-Fetti, 1620

Scientists are discovering that minds need to wander.  In fact, a wandering my is often a productive mind, a very productive mind.  Clive Thompson writes “Daydreaming isn’t just the mind’s way of processing information, though. Other scans have found that the wandering mind also utilizes the prefrontal cortex, the part of our brain that’s involved in problem-solving. The upshot, says Jonathan Schooler, a professor of psychology at UC Santa Barbara who is studying this area, is that your idling mind is likely doing deeply creative work, tackling your hairiest long-term tasks — projects you’ve been trying to address for months, the arc of your career, the state of your marriage. “Mind-wandering is actually a very involved task,” Schooler says. “You leave the here and now and focus on more remote concerns that nevertheless might be more important. We’ve been focusing on the downside of this, but we need to think about the upside.”

Indeed, Schooler suspects that research like his explains why so many “aha” moments occur when we’re drifting — like Archimedes in the tub.”

Archimedes (287 BC – c. 212 BC), the prominent mathematician of his time, is believed to have discovered the scientific principles of density and buoyancy – as his mind wandered.  Not bad for a scrub session.

As a poet, I understand the value of mental meanders.  Often, I purposely untether by consciousness from my immediate environs and drift like a lost boat on a mighty ocean (or in a warm tub).  I believe my best poetry finds its foundation as my mind wanders.  This is when I best notice, I best observe.  In an instant, my mind nabs a piece of…of something – but then and there, my poem begins to breathe.

Here’s an link to the article quoted above: http://www.wired.com/magazine/2009/10/st_thompson/

Now, if you’ll excuse me.  I need to take a bath.  There’s a poem to write.

Please, Do This

I read an interesting post on Michael Wells’s blog, Stick Poet Super Hero. A link to Wells’s blog is posted below. The entry I read is titled What is your poetry supposed to do? Here’s a simple list of what I hope my poetry encourages my readers to do.

photo courtesy of FreePhotosBank.com

1. Look out a window.

2. Reconsider their dog.

3. Discover the texture of words.

4. Feel lonely.

5. Value shadow.

6. Stand at length beside a tree.

7. Listen.

8. Appreciate breath.

9. Walk into cold wind.

10. Turn the page.

 

Stick Poet Super Hero: http://stickpoetsuperhero.blogspot.com/

I Am Iron-Man

I’ve recently been diagnosed with an unfortunate blood condition – hemochromatosis. It seems my blood is rich with iron, too rich.  Strangely enough, the doctor said my blood might be able to tickle metal detectors – no lie. I find the treatment a tad archaic.  Once a week for the foreseeable future, I must be bled.  My place of bleeding is St. Clare’s Hospital in Denville, NJ. The sign posted below is affixed to the door I must enter to open my veins.  I found it amusing.  Apparently, I can kill two birds with one stone.

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Three Autumn Poems

photo provided by freedigitalphortos.net

By far, autumn is my favorite time of year. Here, in the Northeast, it sings. Below are three short poems inspired by all that surrounds me.

 

First of Autumn

A crimson leaf
that’s bound to a brook
creeping with the last
blood of summer warmth.
Its stem scratches
the air – a pencil to paper.
Night descends, hazing trees.
More leaves spot the water.
A season’s elegy will
be written by dawn.

 

Night Harvest

thanks to J.H.

Pumpkins lie under
the judgment of cornstalks,
under the inspection
of raccoons scratching
for sweet pulp.

Some people
are like this –
reconciled to the weight
of moonlight,
to the advice of stars
sitting as still as odd shaped
gourds in a withering field.

 

Napping Beneath an Oak

Above, branches weave like fingers –

hands folded in prayer. My skin has cooled

in this shade. For a moment, I imagine

myself beautiful. This would be the best

time to sleep, become an afternoon’s icon,

but two squirrels begin their games,

leaping limb to limb – autumn wood

scrapes like bone.  Day ages, shadows stretch

their roots, and the sun dips her eye beneath

the tree’s stark hem – my skin begins

to warm. I’ll not be worshipped again.