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.

 ———————————————————-

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.

Of Superheroes, Powers, and Poetry

A friend recently made me aware of publication she thought was “right up my alley.”  There is to be an anthology of poetry centered on superheroes: Superman, Batman, the Flash, etc.  The anthology’s web site reads “Superman. Batman. Wonder Woman. Spiderman. Each of these characters is an American superhero, born out of such ideals and idiosyncrasies as magic, the supernatural, the marginalized, and the desire to rise above circumstance and not only ‘fit in,’ but become a role model of sorts. America has long been fascinated with the expression of super-individuality—as if we can all be larger than life. Our obsession with the “invincible self” manifests itself in the form of superheroes. This anthology is meant to illuminate—through poetry—the nuances of such a relationship with self and the “large” individual.”

I’ve been enveloped in the adventures of these “large individuals” since I was a child.  Within the pages of comic books, I, strangely enough, found myself.  A large portion of what I am exists only in a land of dreams. Superheroes were among my first guides into this land.  Even now, they exist between the lines of each poem I write for each poem I write finds first breath within a dream – my imagination.  So yes, William Shakespeare is an inspiration, but let’s not forget Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne.

Strangely enough, when I sat down to write about these old friends, I struggled.  And then, I pondered why I struggled.  Perhaps I know them too well. Perhaps I’ve grown beyond the dreams they can offer and all the reality surrounding me is my new dream, my new fantasy, my new magic: faith, family, etc.  Yes – faith and family.  Wonderful magic.

I was finally able to write two poems.  I’ll submit them soon.  Here’s a link if you’re interested in the anthology – http://www.superheropoetryanthology.blogspot.com/

Ignore the Man Behind the Curtain

In an essay recently featured in The New York Times Sunday Book Review, Arthur Krystal writes, “Like most writers, I seem to be smarter in print than in person. In fact, I am smarter when I’m writing. I don’t claim this merely because there is usually no one around to observe the false starts and groan-inducing sentences that make a mockery of my presumed intelligence, but because when the work is going well, I’m expressing opinions that I’ve never uttered in conversation and that otherwise might never occur to me”  (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/27/books/review/Krystal-t.html?_r=1&partner=rss&emc=rss&pagewanted=all).

The premise of Krystal’s essay is that many writers fail to represent themselves well when asked to speak.  Rather than wielding the language command, the intellectual capacity their pens endow them with, writers often speak about as well as a pre-adolescent boy delivering a speech to his peers about the mating habits of a Tanzanian hippopotamus.

Although I’m a writer, I consider myself a well spoken individual.  Almost 20 years of guiding high school students, and now more recently college students, through the caverns of literature and writing has made me quick on my speaking feet – so to speak.  Still, Krystal’s main idea got me thinking.  What weakness or weaknesses do I hide behind my words, my poetry? Does the answer lie within the poetry itself? Does each poem hide a distinct characteristic or flaw? Or is each poem I write a brick in an ever-growing wall that protects my imperfections from the world’s eyes?  Quite honestly, I don’t know and not knowing bothers me.  Therefore, fellow poets and writers, help me.  Do you hide behind your craft?  If so, what do you hide?  Let me know.  Find me crouched behind my next poem.

Sanctuary

Today, I’ll contribute
my breath and the warmth
that clogs my pores.

Allow the mole
its bravery, scraping
deeper into some

undiscovered cranny
of earth. Let dew drops
sleep in the furrows

of green blades. Soon,
they’ll slip and spill
their light; but I’ll cower

in a shade spread
by a tool shed’s frame,
rolling my thoughts

into marbles I’ll bag
and hide. Today, no friend
will touch these toys.

This Too Is Poetry

As a poet and a literature teacher/professor, I’ve encountered many definitions of poetry.  For example - ”A short piece of imaginative writing, of a personal nature and laid out in lines is the usual answer. Will that do? Poetry definitions are difficult, as is aesthetics generally. What is distinctive and important tends to evade the qualified language in which we attempt to cover all considerations. Perhaps we could say that poetry was a responsible attempt to understand the world in human terms through literary composition”   (http://www.poetrymagic.co.uk/whatispoetry.html).

At best, these are clinical definitions. Poetry deserves something more than a clinical definition.  Poetry deserves a definition that well illustrates the beauty and magic it wields.  I believe famed British poet William Wordsworth penned a fine definition.  Wordsworth professed that poetry is the “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings arising from emotion recollected in tranquility.”

Generally, I discover this spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings when I’m able to divorce myself from thinking. This separation is most easily accomplished for me when I step off the paved streets of routine and onto the literal path that wind the wood about my home. 

This image is courtesy of: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Living in the hills of Northwest New Jersey, I’m surrounded by the hues and perfumes of nature.  With these colors and aromas, I escape routine.  Time slows.  My mind enjoys a revitalizing hush.  I feel as if God carves all that surrounds me simply because He knows I find sanctuary in His craft. I found this sanctuary today, but neither within a glade of trees nor the shade it cools the earth with.  I found it in the calm, confident voice of my wife.

My wife, Laura, spends several hours each day teaching our son Garrett, 5, reading, writing, arithmetic, history, and, yes, even poetry. Today, home from work, I listened as Laura opened the world, the heavens to Garrett. She guided him with a firm, gentle hand, and a kind, loving voice. Studying E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web, Laura walked Garrett across Zukerman’s farm and into the barn where Wilbur and Charlotte forge their friendship.  She spoke of Charlotte’s lonely death and cried. I’ve tucked this into my pocket like a brilliant gem so I might hold and feel it again.  For this, too, is poetry – the most beautiful kind.