(Read aloud and slowly to the accompaniment of Klaus Schulze's "My Ty She".
youtube.com/watch?v=o0nZbt1Txsk&t=2552s
Low volume. Start at 10.00. )
Stay here as my guest
You'll be in good hands
Trance is not difficult
Can teach us nothing
Though his eyes were open
In the middle of the night
Watched in dumb shock
Some things don't translate
Under existing conditions
His toes were webbed
As we have discussed
To get the children smiling
Filled with animal noises
I sang in the high mass
To meet the bear
We had to go naked
To the great mountains
Passed a burning house
Eaten up with fury
Robin's eggs and diamonds
Something fresh and new
All the props and sets
Living with his choices
Either of his horses
Some sort of compensation
That's most of us these days
Mad-rattling his shields
Fought hard for the sun
You may get thrown
In another darker story
Came at me like a tornado
From now on
It wouldn't have mattered
For so many centuries
Yielding up a vivid miniature
Behind all such moments
We finally gave up
Another space and time
Use to tirelessly repeat
Came to my house
With only inner traces
Taken as a whole
When it was over
Sufficient time had elapsed
There is only the spiral
High pitch of feeling
Whispered to him, saying
Why do you draw back?
Pulled back the blankets
Why do you draw back?
Whispered to him, saying
In their complex hearts
At their council
Blooming in secret
Saddened by the closure
His face was hot
More than a game
Straight spout of black
There was a poem called
Tear down your house
And all the rest
Tear down your house
The sorrow that he knew
The metal-walled community
I returned to them
Bore him along the horizon
Not vanishing then
He listened to her words
He tried to speak
Standing on a bridge
They assumed he was gone
Deeply held things
He had half-promised
Needing some kind of mirror
I write these pages
Took a deep breath
Have dared to dream
It poured hard all night
Tucked it under his arm
Once you have touched it
I'm going to mail it
Then fall into and sleep
In contemplating oldness
I feel such tiredness
Close-fitting grey hat
Around those dead cells
Watching them leave
For the time being
The trinket was passed around
They only seemed to retreat
Not a little nettled
One can imagine that
Sufficient time had elapsed
I am no longer young
We picked up the pace
Your own story grows
The lonely darkness
He went through the motions
Responsible as the stars
From every possible angle
Harmonize the art
Surprised you remember how
.......
Books sourced:
The Real Wrexham G. Daves
The Magnificent Obsession L.C. Douglas
Gilgamesh -- A Verse Narrative Mason
How the Irish Saved Civilization T. Cahill
Endless Path R. Martin
And a Voice to Sing With J. Baez
The Drummer's Path S. G. Wilson
The Golem I. B. Singer
Albert Einstein In His Own Words Einstein
Reflection: So what is this poem about? I think it is about the responsibility (?) the burden (?) the other responsibilities of the shamanic poet, or poet-as-shaman.
The last stanza says it all: (In) The lonely darkness / He went through the motions / Responsible as the stars / From every possible angle / (to) Harmonize the art / Surprised you remember how
The poet evolves through many selves, many "I"s, not just in a lifetime but sometimes in the course of a single day. The worldly one who brings in the wood or washes the dishes or makes dinner, isn't of much use when it comes to writing a poem like "From now on, we". In the last line he is talking to himself. He is always surprised that he remembers how to "harmonize the art". The "art" is, of course, the writing of this kind of open-ended, soul-liberating poem that enters upon unexplored territory outside of my familiar beat. The "lonely darkness" is the self-imposed blindness of starting out in the pitch dark of uncharted space, inching my way along, feeling for objects, peering into the darkness for any kind of illumination.
I have written about this technique of repurposing fragments of sentences extracted from books pulled from my library. The justification for the invention of this "oracular" technique derives from the assumption that what we already know isn't working, that conventional metaphors aren't getting us to where we need to go fast enough, the assumption that time is short . . . That, if poets can manage it, they should use their art to journey shamanically, to press into the darkness, to "burn down the house" where you have been hanging your poetic hat. "Tear down" your poetic address and get naked to "meet the bear" in the great mountains. The challenge is, if one has it in them to be a shamanic poet, don't wait. This would be the time.
(Article changed on Mar 15, 2021 at 9:00 AM EDT)
(Article changed on Mar 15, 2021 at 9:26 AM EDT)
(Article changed on Mar 15, 2021 at 6:59 PM EDT)
