On Poets and Poetry

Why am I poet? Because I write poetry. A better question to ask is then, why do I write poetry? This is much more complicated. As long as we allow a place for poetry in our culture, then the place for poets is safe. But if poetry is threatened, and poetry disappears, the poet becomes in Soviet jargon, “social parasite.” Therefore we can see that what justifies the poet’s existence is not their being a poet, in upholding some sort of essential poet-ness, but rather in producing a certain kind of work, a poem. All the stereotypes and clichés we might have of how poets exist and what they look like are such because only one thing makes a poet, and that is the poem.

The poet must also remember the poem is a creation which lies between music and prose. It is able to contain discrete meaning through words, but at the same time it is dependent on the impression of each word and how they interact with the ones before it. There can be no useless and unconnected parts of a poem, there should be no tangents if possible. In prose this can occur but in poetry economy of words is key.

It is the work which defines one as a poet. The poet of course supplies the raw labor necessary for the poem to be formed and become part of reality, but knowing anything about the poet is irrelevant. It might spur certain interpretations and can be helpful know, especially for those who want write poetry themselves, but the poem can stand on its own without the help of the poet’s personality. Anonymous troubadours and bards have handed us down poems that are still part of the Western cannon such as Beowulf. The identity of Homer is such a mystery that we might consider the Iliad and the Odyssey to be part of this tradition as well. These poems are lucky in a way not to be burdened with a real authorship, for then they can be appreciated on their own without reference to a body of work or the aura that well known poets carry around themselves and tends to blind the critical eye when appraising their work.

The poet should feel liberated by this humility towards the importance of the work. It allows the poet freedom from worry about being original and outside of tradition; nor that they have to develop and remain faithful to some sort of “voice.” Instead the poet becomes a craftsman, a maker, and less of a personality. It must be remembered though, he or she can still aspire to the transcends responsibilities David Citino identifies in “The Eye of the Poet,” to be a visionary or a namer of the nameless.

Most important for the poet is the liberation from the voice. A poet who focuses on the work and lets the work speak through him or her, is freed from that search which often preoccupies younger poets. The poet must be like a charismatic preacher, able to speak in tongues, adapting to every poem and willing to write the same poem in more than one way, to examine thoughts of heartbreak in the sonnet form and in free verse, through a rambling style or one that is more reserved.

T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock might be an extension of his own thoughts on the nature of fleeting time, but the character is not a confession. Instead Eliot conceived of the poem’s subject and found a voice who could speak amply on it. Prufrock was much older than Eliot was when he wrote the poem, and one who was far more experienced in the world of one night stand, “in cheap hotels.” Eliot’s masterpiece, “The Wasteland” also shows the freedom and creativity to be gained by finding out different voices which can challenge the author. He speaks as both the blind prophet Tiresias and as a tarot card reader. He turns from rhymed verse to every-day speech. It should be noted that the original title of the work embraced this principle, “He Do the Police in Different Voices.”

Like an actor finding a character within, the poet works to find the voice. But it is still one voice out of many, not a unitary way of engaging the universe and the culture in dialogue. Even if the world is of one mind, as poet Li Young Lee would have it, still this mind must have its various ways of speaking to itself so that it might proceed to greater understanding and the poet accomplishes this not only for the society at large but also personally when they try to speak in different voices through their work. Poetry when done this way then opens up different ways of seeing and helps the poet speak for those who might not otherwise be able to.

However poetry, as T.S. Eliot might have it, is not a refuge from the self. The progress of a poet need not be a “extinction of personality.” Instead poetry should broaden the personality of the poet, it should help the poet to find him or herself in many places, times, and minds and if done properly can also send the reader there as well. Of course no poet can speak in an infinite number of ways, but they are severely limited if they can only use one.

The problem of speaking in one voice comes through especially with the more confessional poetry that details the obsessions and past crimes of the poet. Many good poems have been and can be written from the subject matter of the writer’s life and their experiences, but simply being honest about the past does not make a poem good. The principle that the work is more important than the poet still applies. The facts add nothing by themselves. Rather they must conform to the flow and the music of the words. The poem is not a database, it is a window and sometimes through a window we do not see everything, either because we can’t or we choose not to. If details have to be left out to help the poem along and keep it from being weighed down, then so be it.

The problem of writing with a personal voice is that it makes editing harder because it feels as if the poet is compromising themselves. Instead of worrying about the work and the craft, the voice takes center stage and limiting it in any way appears to the poet to be a form of self-censorship. If the work is the central focus it will determine already what is necessary and what is not and the poet merely has to trust his or her intuition about the poem.

Politics s not suited for poetry. The bad political decisions of poets should alone prove (e.g. Pound) this but the substance of poetry itself is also problematic. A political poem should understand that it can only treat political concerns in either a direct way or an indirect one. The middle ground of naming names and –isms fails because it reads off a list of details and trivializes contemporary positions and politicians. It uses too much metaphor to describe something that is best argued for in real terms.

However, there can be good political poems. A successful political poetry must either elevate political struggle to pure myth in a dualistic world of diametrically opposed camps or it must be discrete. In the first case it would frame Bush in Iraq as a crusader, going with that as a theme and sticking seriously to it. It would make a commitment to viewing events in that way and then would develop honestly from that point rather than starting with facts and trying to dress them up with a little flourish.

In the second method, the discrete way, the poet is writing about the effect of something terrible and letting this create a passion for solving the problem. A poem about the problems of capitalism would talk about the concerns of miners and their terrible working conditions in order to then inspire an inquiry into why this is going on and lead the reader to further action. But the poem does not preach any solution, it tells about the problem. In addition a political poem could operate by critiquing the language used in politics. It can show the absurd corruption of a word like freedom used to defend tyranny and oppression, or justice used to cover up injustice. This approach goes back to the practical role of the poem, to critique language and how it is used.

If poetry is going to become read again and become popular, it must avoid confessionalism, confrontationism, and esotericism. The work must not be compromised by the poet’s personality as much as possible. The read cannot be treated as the enemy and poetry should not be a shibboleth to separate the educated and uneducated. Attention must turn to the poem and what the poem is supposed to achieve, this sounds simple but many poets have ignored it. All too often they understand what they are trying to achieve but forget they are working with a poem and not an essay or a treatise. They have a limited space and have to select their words carefully.

Of course all great future poems have the potential to be exempt from these rules. It is such works that the rules themselves are built around. They help to define poetry and what the perfect synthesis of word and sound can be. These rules are based on the combined cannon of such works and on the possibilities they open up, but also on the things they tend to do in common.

It’s Another Day

It’s another day
I can happily say
It’s another day
And I feel okay

There’s nothing you can do
To change my point of view

I’m feeling like I fit into a plan
I know I’ve been a desperate man

It seems like the sun is shining only for me
I know I can move across the deep blue sea

It’s another day
I just want to play
It’s another day
Feels like a holiday

There’s someone watching over me
When I’m not able to see

I’m feeling like I fit into a plan
I know I’ve been a desperate man

It seems like my world is coming together
I know I can brave any bad weather

It’s another day
I can happily say
It’s another day
And I feel okay

Copyright Rich Love © 2008

Cenovia

Cenovia how I wondered if I would see you again
Cenovia how I wondered if I could ever explain

I lost your contact when I failed to call back
But when I saw you again nothing had changed oh no
You were the same so sweet

Cenovia you are who I’ve been waiting for
Cenovia we can let love open the door

I will hold you close and never let you go
I will always be your loving man oh yeah
Your biggest fan

“Dedicated to the only woman who truly believes in me.”
“I love you and your children with all of my heart always and forever.”

Copyright Rich Love © 2008

Self Protection

condom

I knew better but still went along with it. Trapped in lust, my logic was over come by my member. It stood there arose and not in terms for negotiations, as I was in no position to argue.
It was a long two months since I was in this position. Two legs spread wide apart exposing their glory. This place I’ve been countless times before. A body I knew better than my own had now been compromised. About two months or so from this day me and the one that laid before me had thrown a six year relationship to the wind with the famous ’If it was meant to be, than it will be.’ quote attached. In that time she had linked up with another, experimenting sexually without the use of contraceptives. The relationship faded after a mere two weeks, and with here body sexually tense. She called on a guaranteed orgasm.
She smelled good. The aroma from here vagina filled my lungs, allowing me to exhale a pleasurable sigh. That sigh was also one of caution. I wanted this, I was also horny myself, and I thought this may be the glue to fix this rip between us. I also thought of her contracting something from someone, a worry that was of my first concern ever since she told me of the encounters. Questions where placed upon her long before this curve ball had arisen. I mentioned a STD test and she chuckled saying she was fine. From there on I didn’t stress the matter, I just told myself that if she wanted to rekindle our relationship, than I would see to it that she got tested before anything. This oath meant nothing now. A moan jumped out into the air as my tongue lay upon here clitoris, her moans becoming louder, hands pressed against my head. My conscious yelled at me, but her moans where louder, my penis tightened and the worries where long forgotten. After two consecutive rounds. I clothed myself, freshened up and proceeded to open the front door, as I made my into the November night the worries began to follow.
Standing at the bus stop a psychotic itch took over my groin area. Hugging my genitals. I thought it may just be a frame of mind maybe I was playing tricks on myself thinking to much of the matter. My bus ride began and concluded and the itch still lingered, greatly penetrating along the shaft and ball connect. I got home hopped in the shower and felt for any bumps, there where none but the itch continued. I stood in the shower for a moment, after I was done and turned up the hot water letting it drop along my genitals. I gave off a sigh of relieve, exposing myself more to the scorching hot water. After that I clothed myself and got ready for bed. The itch still bothered me for a couple of days until finally subsiding. I called my ex and told her of what happened again, she blew it off directing the source of the problem towards me as she always has and removing herself from the equation. I got tested and waited. Waiting on my nerves for the results it came back negative. I was fine, but the scare was very real. I found myself thinking of the events and wondering if I would have done it again. Yes, I thought to myself but only for her. That’s when I came to the realization that love really does make you stupid and that no one should stop you from using a condom. All of a sudden those commercials and after school specials came to me and they all made perfect since. If everyone would take the precaution to protect themselves, than at the same time will be protecting each other. Use a latex save a life. Words I truly live by.

For Meghan

I met Nathan when I went to read a story at the Hugo House. He read too. He has reddish hair– like copper flaking away its green. His teeth are wide. One is melded into another. I feel so much sadness for him. He will come meet my family tomorrow night. We’ll converge, at their apartment. Me, Nathan, Jim and Linda. No Jen, no Lauren, no Abbi, no Lewis. Just us. I’ve never done that with a boy before. But he’s the kinda guy that will let you stop his hand from traveling between you, not getting angry, not getting flushed. I tried to call Dad to cancel but he was too drunk to talk, incoherent really. Slurring his “See you toborrow.” My ma was too busy to talk. Nathan was counting on it. So I couldn’t cancel with him. So I’m writing this. For Meghan.

The Village Pet Shop & Charcoal Grill

for Banksy

stop the dolphin
on the sidewalk
blue five feet
coin slot saddle
and red fishnet
the leopard lost
his coat tail swinging
red satin lining
five thousand gold buttons
bone not included
the chameleon wears Louis Vuitton
and Krylon splashes
the bonobo clutches
the remote watching
the discovery channel
monkeys’ procreating
pushing buttons—rewind
fish fillets magnified
in the bowl swimming
in circles
vienna sausages wiggle
and hot dogs snuggle
in the aquarium thirsty
for dripping mustard
the nuggets take a dip
sweet and sour
under supervision
from mother hen
sitting on her scramble.
we step out
seventh ave south
nowhere to eat

Lolo

Lolo
whistled ivory
teeth of coconut meat
meant he was shoveling
or having coffee with Acidophilus Milk
or a smoke with Dan the ‘Nam vet
who sold him cartons

Lolo
wore flip flops in the garden
carved canyons in his soles
saw clearly beyond cataracts
made Filipino expletives
ukininam at the mahjong table
shuffling made the gamble sound simpatico
like the tango he danced on the piano

Lolo
called us from the trees
with peanut butter toast
fed us with his thick cracked fingers
nails like moons
kamayan style

Lolo
read Are you my mother?
to the audience, a page-turner, age three
in his lap and when you fell
he spanked the concrete
with vengeance
for a scraped knee
handfuls of coins convinced you
shhh—you were his favorite

In the morning basement
he hacked a toilet cough
for yesterday’s phlegm
in the bathroom where his dentures slept
where we split his menthols
and flushed them like love
we could not reciprocate

For Y’all

I roll Dekalb. I
watch color walls. I
illegal scrawl. I
feel
Fall. I
keel haul to
port of call. I

kill oak gall. Jackal
dolls bawl in
mess hall.
Ah !
ritual alcohol
non-habitual. I
waterfall

default to
thrall crawl

no wherewithal. I
drawl to
downfall. I
anchor

ancestral temple I
follow falsetto to
steeple to
people to
purple pall. Je
suis pas mal. I

Overhaul big
basalt ball
bearing to
Nepal. I
maul dhal
enthralled
by witwall craw
FAUGH!
I
am
salt
to
this
call.

Currency

“Money is a kind of poetry.”
~Wallace Stevens

A kind of currency. Lingua franca. Electric voltage to jumpstart a body or fry it to a crisp. Everything is bark. Words. Mots. Palabras. Pesetas. Copper. Argent. What a verbal illustration. Tip dessin vert. Mint species. Poetry is green olive and foliage. It will buy you a lover. Keep you in debt. Make you use bills for scratch. Jot your bliss. Spend it. It is vibrational. Tonal. Clinking in your pocket. You’ve got some. Everyone hears it. Wants it. “Just keys,” you say. Honestly. We’re bound by an imaginary trust to compensate for a world we could never afford. A cent is more magnificent in its power than its form. The opposite is true sometimes too. Shells. Buttons. It attempts to replace all things it cannot be. Tender to feed children, who will always hunger. We want it. We want it until our change is perceptual. We see trees different. We learn the value of patching a deflated tube inside a tire on the shoulder of an empty highway. No promises, but to leave a memory imprinted on the grooves and creases of palms and fingers. We exchange notes on a history of dead men and wonder. Is it a means or an end to suffer? I drop my heaviest coins into the mouth of a washing machine to shake the debris from the skins that protect me. Spin. Slide on a magnetic strip. Data. Plastic. Rarely seen or held. Easily drained.

cremating a demon

if you sit still enough
the rwandan military
maracas and djembes
in hand will shake you
out the conga tree
entrain your thumping
beat an executive
order with six thousand
rebel forces ravishing
women strategic sheets
of boom and clang
embody their arms
inhabiting a melody
in the hollow
emerging from cobalt
that will take us
beyond sun embed us
in a videogame
car crash cocooned
via airbag inflated
by a tin
computer whose veins
knit as blue
and red wires pump
over the atlantic
in your blood wherein
one hand can
hold your mother
and in the other a drum
reigns and does not govern
someone resembles the madhatter
sits on bulging roots at the base of the tree
swigs from a crinkled paper sack intermittently
offers a whistle
wood barrels make boom
beads and rope
a hauling bump shack
stars of david
frankincense with metal
wind and saxophone resonant force of going
. some stop

On the path with basketballs or the curiosity of an archaeologist picking twigs remnants from the trees and carbon and dance steps on resting leaves there’s a reason for boots berets and beards and repetition and interruption