HUMAN DEFINITIONS

Coleridge smoked dope and wrote about Xanadu

At times I think Key West is Xanadu

And that Xanadu and Key West are a human mind.

The waves pass through the dock pylons.

An avalanche of cocaine hasn’t turned America into poets.

 

Plato loved the stars for an unchanging eternal pattern

I might hate them for that but they are beautiful.

The tide flows like the stars, but the sea is different.

The sea could never be unchanging, but it is always the sea.

Key West is of the sea and not the stars.

 

The Greeks made forms for the stars spattered against the deep.

They gave us Orion and Cygnus and the Serpent around the pole star.

The serpent has potential

I’ll bet Chinese make different groups.

I’ll bet every culture has to make groups.

The stars are a scary randomness.  Not like the sea.

The sea is unchanging and always the sea.

Key West is like the stars and like the sea.

The waves pass through the dock pylons.

Publishing Poetry

I just discovered an alarming factoid.  I perused the New Yorker magazine submissions page tonight.  They state that they do not accept poems that have been previously published.  INCLUDING POSTS ON PERSONAL WEB PAGES!  I read further and discovered that they do not publish previously published poems even if THEY HAVE BEEN DELETED FROM A WEB PAGE!  I put many of my new poems up here on my page.  But I now find that that precludes them from publication in the New Yorker.  Wow!  I’m certainly going to need to think about this in the future.

I’m not criticizing the New Yorker.  This is merely a public service announcement to all my cyber friends on the web.

SARASVATI

There was one Goddess who comprehended it all, inspiration

And they comprehended it all together and lit the Agni Flame to call upon her, invocation

To explain her, today, we make a list

 

Long before philosophy, before science was

The Word

Before music was chanting and chanting

Verse

Created everything in the Vedas

It was all there, is all there

Song

Devas, devotion, communion, community

Sacred Flame

Carrying burning souls’ aspirations into Agni unto Sarasvati

So it was, it is in Homer, Apollo’s Delphi, in David’s

Psalms

It’s all there: wisdom, lex, lux, love, lifegiving inspiration, love giving life

Praise and supplication

 

And Babel specialized each species and genera, specious

So we have scientists, philosophers, musicians

Poetry

Alone, isolated, island unto itself, no word is an island,

Style

Isn’t sufficient to suffuse sapientia, Sophia, sophistry, silence

I live literature all allowed together, all awed

A lawless freedom of discipline

Makes

A discipline out of words

Alongside science, philosophy, music

And primal unity of what matters together

Breaks

FRAGILITY

It’s good

I’ve got it good

Let me have it good

I know only too well the Fragility of Goodness

 

I want

I want it easy

I don’t want to struggle anymore

I know only too well the Fragility of Goodness

 

All right

Bring it on if it must

Life’s taught me I can take it, when I have to

Just let me rest a space

I know only too well the Fragility of Goodness

EVOCATIVE NOMINATIVES

Sky mountains waterfalls ocean depths

Snowflakes white earth rivers frozen lakes

Leaves in the air fallen on the sodden ground enveloped by the season

Raindrops vaporescent oceans downpours clouds

Mist meadows fog sky rainbows

Faces mobs friends the human race

Love a God above devotion heaven sky and earth

FALLOW HEAD

There is a time for production and

A time for induction.  I am learning

A Scott Joplin piece and I have nothing

To say.  Fallow land is still being farmed

If not by man or woman, then by God

And if God be too high to comprehend cognitively and get, yet

All that is works on brain synapses

Which some call mind, others the soul

On a fallow head

 

I’ve labored hard abnegating everything else

Sabbatical’s completed creativity rests.

But since time still needs filled and CNN

Repeats itself on the hour and TV’s repeating movies fail to move

I play the piano.  And learn Scott Joplin’s Mexican Serenade;

I read a little, listen to classic rock, maybe jazz, and wake up my days to baroque, sipping coffee

In my following of sabbatical fallow induction

After all, there needs to be some substantive thing to make something

 

Sleeps dreams arrange the brain

Psyche’s stresses become meaning in sleep

Criticism, Opinion, and Contemporary Art

OK.  I have difficulty appreciating contemporary art.  I had difficulty appreciating disco music.  In the mid ’70’s it was disco or punk.  I had difficulty appreciating both the Bee Gees and Sid Vicious.  So in the mid ’70’s, I opted out of pop music.  For musical enjoyment, I retreated into the world of classical music in my protest/hermitage from pop culture.  And in large part, I’m opting out of contemporary art.  This includes conceptual art, much poetry, and fiction.  I can bear some contemporary music, probably because of all the arts, I understand music best.  But even in “music,” conceptual art such as John Cage is past my willingness to try to like.

Innovation gives birth to new art forms.  In high school, I didn’t understand Jackson Pollock, but like him now.  Fair to say, though, I wouldn’t hang his work in my condo.  My parents didn’t like rock music–disco or other any other form.  But I would argue that rock pushed an envelope that needed to be pushed.  And I’ll say that some classic rock is great in a pop sort of way.  I certainly wouldn’t want a world with only Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., and Frank Sinatra.  So whatever contemporary art thinks it’s doing, it may be advancing the arts.  (Isn’t that generous of me?)  Few appreciated the Impressionists in their day.  But they did the art world a great service in moving painting beyond Gustave Moreau.  Maybe there’s something in the art that came through town which consisted of folding chairs interspersed with speakers through which a dreamy woman spoke about her dream of crows dying.?

A while back, I thought that my ideas about art were bona fide criticism.  I thought that my understanding of art constituted a critical stance and I thought that others should heed my critical positions.  But I now see that as ego.  My critical stance is really opinion.  I’ll validate my opinion that much in contemporary art is not worth my time.  But I won’t say that it’s bad art.  All I can say is that I don’t like it, don’t get it, don’t wish to take the time to get it.  What passes for art today may well be advancing forms that the children of my generation will love.  Or it might be like disco, and die out.  I don’t know.  Don’t think anyone can know.  What I can know is that my position is opinion.  I’d like to think it critical theory and call down the Harpies of the art world on everything I don’t like.  A few months ago, I would have.  Now, call it humility, maybe, but my preferences are mine alone.  Which frees me up to shrug off what I don’t think deserving of my time.  And to laud those who are doing things I don’t get.