09-07-2012, 12:34 AM
Then your imagination's doing what it loves. And Leanne will do well to keep sending down well fed poems from her tower of brilliance; while I'm over the rainbow in a Bizarro Mad Max territory smearing purple textured shit on God's windows. Because God tells things to U.S. presidents and University founders like Jerry Falwell, you know? And he tells the love of my life's mother things too, and sometimes characters on TV call her by name; and though God doesn't talk directly to the daughter, cats tell her to kill things, squirrels hurt her feelings, and when she asked the trees if she should stay with me they said weird things that left her disturbed for weeks. My poems are thick with allusions and delusions that rarely conveniently rhyme. Because I'm trying to be true to my muse. And sometimes I can relate to this poem by Yeats:
Words
I had this thought a while ago,
'My darling cannot understand
What I have done, or what would do
In this blind bitter land.'
And I grew weary of the sun
Until my thoughts cleared up again,
Remembering that the best I have done
Was done to make it plain;
That every year I have cried, 'At length
My darling understands it all,
Because I have come into my strength,
And words obey my call';
That had she done so who can say
What would have shaken from the sieve?
I might have thrown poor words away
And been content to live.
But mostly I relate to poems like this:
Legend
by Hart Crane
As silent as a mirror is believed
Realities plunge in silence by ...
I am not ready for repentance;
Nor to match regrets. For the moth
Bends no more than the still
Imploring flame. And tremorous
In the white falling flakes
Kisses are,—
The only worth all granting.
It is to be learned—
This cleaving and this burning,
But only by the one who
Spends out himself again.
Twice and twice
(Again the smoking souvenir,
Bleeding eidolon!) and yet again.
Until the bright logic is won
Unwhispering as a mirror
Is believed.
Then, drop by caustic drop, a perfect cry
Shall string some constant harmony,—
Relentless caper for all those who step
The legend of their youth into the noon.
Words
I had this thought a while ago,
'My darling cannot understand
What I have done, or what would do
In this blind bitter land.'
And I grew weary of the sun
Until my thoughts cleared up again,
Remembering that the best I have done
Was done to make it plain;
That every year I have cried, 'At length
My darling understands it all,
Because I have come into my strength,
And words obey my call';
That had she done so who can say
What would have shaken from the sieve?
I might have thrown poor words away
And been content to live.
But mostly I relate to poems like this:
Legend
by Hart Crane
As silent as a mirror is believed
Realities plunge in silence by ...
I am not ready for repentance;
Nor to match regrets. For the moth
Bends no more than the still
Imploring flame. And tremorous
In the white falling flakes
Kisses are,—
The only worth all granting.
It is to be learned—
This cleaving and this burning,
But only by the one who
Spends out himself again.
Twice and twice
(Again the smoking souvenir,
Bleeding eidolon!) and yet again.
Until the bright logic is won
Unwhispering as a mirror
Is believed.
Then, drop by caustic drop, a perfect cry
Shall string some constant harmony,—
Relentless caper for all those who step
The legend of their youth into the noon.