new day

The blind king no longer hides and by midday light finds every corner.
Perceiving players and plots unite,
the inevitability of truth,
at sundown the king declares all is well
and vanishes.

(for Oedipus)

in time

reflections

who knows
what is there

crow

the bird I see
most often now

back to school

fall, 2012

foot harmony

nature imitates nature

long neck

still a good choice

wings

Metaphors in motion

Some say we create our worlds
from memories made long ago
like the clam awash in pounding surf
on a wild and pristine beach
turning into bony jaws and frothy milk,
irritations into pearly teeth --
on to roaring motors quieted down
and car hoods opening,
robots that look like us.

camouflaged

a standout

full house

new day, same posts

silver sky

The poet

is a misfit
disaffecting
those who would disable her
she's trouble
like plato's escaped prisoner
delights in discovery
in seeing
and seeing further
though she may be
blind like homer

and when her faith
wiggles out of its cocoon
into a poem
it sometimes has wings

Saturday morning, Isla Vista

shadow on the run

comedy / tragedy

new icons

poet

writing down just how
once upon a time and now
it all comes about

shouting from the rooftop

prototype

sky in the sand

the "madness" of the poet (a commentary)

I'm beginning to read The Modern Poet, by Robert Crawford (Professor of Modern Scottish Literature, St. Andrews, published by Oxford University Press). Professor Crawford "…shows how many successive generations of poets have needed to collaborate and to battle with academia" (quoted from the cover). As I read the Introduction, I'm impressed with many of the writer's insights, and certainly with his abundance of data, but dismayed by a continuing referral to the "madness" of poets. Why does he prefer this word to "inspired" which has a different, and more positive, connotation?  

It has been a common delusion in "modern" times that poets are "mad", even need to be "mad" to write poetry, and madness is not exactly what most people trust (Professor Crawford among them?).  Too, a poet's personal aberrations can become confused with his talent, as though sanity and insanity, at least temporarily, really go together, and this confusion is not uncommon in academia. Most writers of poetry associate their art with their highest awareness and sometimes call it 'revealed truth', a gift as it were. Poetry is found in high places; but how many reach those places? In that context, the association of poetry with "madness" is inherently oppressive -- with enough repetition, the young, especially, are subtly discouraged from reaching for it with thought and feeling, and encouraged instead as part of their "education" to conform and be "normal" (where a great deal of real insanity is fostered). Dr. Crawford, with one foot in academia, reveals the nature of the poet's "battle with academia" in his choice of words.

Here is a bit of verse related to this theme (as all poetry is):

The Visitor
Like rain dropping into the sea
like mist evaporating
when boundaries disappear
I grow larger and larger

***

The shape-shifter that sets me free
unveils what I hold too tightly,
lives behind my masks and in them,
in stones too, and mere words

***

Faithful as a rising sun
love appears dressed in light
to unite with me, to create new life,
when I am willing.

(by Joneve McCormick)

***

See also interview with Poetry Pacific.

snowy egret

in his own domain
a philosopher king

what could be

fill in the spaces

it came to pass ...

some beaks reached further

spot on, over the top

tanka

tinsel

waiting

everything comes to him who waits -
everything -

tribute to local flora

sidewalk in Isla Vista

passing fancy

he has his own wings

...and knows how close
to fly to the sun

intention rules

it is said
man does nothing
he does not choose
but much he will deny

pretty does as pretty is

who can blame her
for using time well?

blending in

freedom

...some think it's an illusion
others feel the difference

alone at last

red in the evening sky

a pristine place

where a game is played
some call karmic
of eat and be eaten
to stay alive