Friday, February 27, 2009

What kind of Poet Shall Be?

A Neal Cassady, who prefers to throw his energies at life and only writes during the small pauses between experience. A poet whose main job is to experience life and further its vision. His material shall only come from real life. He would not develop worlds of fantasy, as this would take away from his living. He would speak like Whitman and Buddhists. No rules but sharp everyday language. Even business language, yea even the tactical warrior's language. It shall not be stories, mere moments. A collection of shards of glass, that together amount to a broken kind of beauty. Sometimes there will be seasons where he is unproductive, where the clouds interfere with his divine reception, and all that echoes through his empty mind and soul is the wind. He would be at times a mischief maker, not of any substance that could stand up firm against judgement. Like Russell Edson, he'd get kicks from throwing bricks into people's window of reality. Sometimes he'd be more subtle and place something onerous at the door and giggle in the bushes. A mystic child becomes a holy goof, a holy goof becomes an eccentric saint. But he can be deathly serious too. So enthralled by zeal for that unreachable, that heaven, that place that lies beyond the veil and casts its shadow and escapes its laughters into our prison world. He'd nurse a habit: a yearning to keep apace with life and youth and the vigor of mind's vision, constantly on his knees pleading for dreams and signs, he cannot focus for the length of a whole life's story, a novel is always out of reach, and undesirable. Though he occasionally reads novels so powerful they amount to a beating, he is also familiar with haikus that are as efficient as a fatal stab. Though he is sympathetic to a mother's lullabye, he is in awe of Jesus' three charged words "Lazarus come forth" and if the poet can only three words speak, that are half as charged with the Eternal charge as these, his mission would be complete. The real fruit of his art is his life. The writing is only refuse. Eiffer und abfall nur eiffer und abfall.

1 comment:

Anne and Joe said...


You must have a room in your next home for you and Linds to cultivate all of your talents.

We would be quite interested in reading more of your prose.