Well this is a big night for many people and as for myself I’m trying to not pay much mind to it (though it is not easy) because I enjoy the blessing of marriage to a woman whose birthplace is not the same as mine and of a present habitation in the place she was born, and also because the procedures required for absentee balloting were not enacted in time to be able to participate, not to mention that my history of candidate-preference is abysmal and that I bear this inner compulsion to dissent from whatever the prevalence happens to end up being…. which sometimes puts me in good company with my fellows and other times I become reacquainted with a metaphorical life in the desert so to speak…
So here’s why I’ve (at least for now) concluded that poetry is where I belong – or why of all the possible places it seems like Poetry is the most suitable – and maybe if someone out there is at a place I am very familiar with, may consider some of what I will share here and if it applies, wonderful, and if not, that’s wonderful too.
The incident that inspired this post – or the string of incidents – happened from the latest trials in trying to do things differently and realizing I enjoyed it this way but also felt a pang of sentiment for the former: the latest forays have been exercises in not thinking too much or not agonizing or focusing too much, spending too much time, on one or two poems. Sling it out and throw it down on the paper (gaining a renewed love for pen and paper) and type it up… say, “mess around with it later” but part of me looks forward to when the mood strikes to pick out a couple poems and spend more intimate time.
So I like both ways. I like it all. Poetry seems to offer such a broad view and innumerable branches to wander off into. I don’t mind being acutely aware that I’ve barely pricked the skin. I know I’ve so much more to learn. I love that itself. I love the challenge of playing with meter and feet and the liberation of completely ignoring those conventions in favor of trying to ‘make’ something that stands on its own. I even love knowing that I’ve still not taken on those feet disciplines to the extent I should. Because it is yet another place to think about going into.
I love the idea of the line. The making of a line. This would be where the closer focus and playing would come in: seeing new ways to say or paint or extend and then seeing that one little change affects the entirety, so some evening or a string of evenings can be devoted to playing with rearrangements and maybe a different word descends from who-knows-where or a synonym suggests a completely different direction than the original sketch.
This love of the line helped sway me from prose poetry – no doubt what I screw around with could be considered no more than prose poetry broken into lines and stanzas – because while I was attracted to the idea or what I perceived to be the idea of prose poetry, and while I can appreciate the idea of a block of text brimming with imagery and texture, etc, I felt a loss of pleasure from not being able to play with lines and breaks.
This helped but the realization did not come overnight.
Well I have more to say but it’s time to go for another suds run.