Poetry and the Mind's I

I used to think of myself as quite the poet. I love to read poetry. I love going to poetry readings and listening to other poets. There's just something about narrowing down everything you want to say into 20 lines or less. Every concept is magnified, and becomes super-real. The trick is getting to that kernel, finding that apex, without getting lost in a bunch of words. A good poet looks at life with a microscope. Inside that membrane of words are individual nuclei of meaning--as difficult to explain as consciousness. The more I explore consciousness, the more abstruse and cryptic it becomes.

The more I explore meaning in poetry, the more inscrutable it seems to be, until it almost loses meaning. And yet, the poem itself is significant. All expressions of art are significant. Why? Why is it that we strive so hard to create a work of art, only to hide it away? The fact that we begin the piece shows that we are taking an initial step to connect with others around us, to express how we feel at a given moment. I have an idea and I want to share that idea with others. Yet, for me, almost as soon as I get started, I stop myself and second-guess what I am about to do. I get lost in the words and lose the meaning. How can that be? If I am expressing how I feel, how is it that I don't believe that I'm really expressing myself correctly? Derrida says that any work of art is owned by the beholder. It shouldn't be up to me to decide if my art is "correct" or not. As soon as the words hit the page, that poem belongs to whoever reads it. The reader imbues the poem with meaning, not the poet.

So with that in mind, I am going to upload a few poems I have written in the past. They used to belong to me. Now they are yours:

TOO PERFECT

(written 2009)

“Watch,” said the magician

With a dead pan expression on his face,

His hands do a pass on pass:

Six of hearts,

Four of spades,

Oh that’s my card.

We are all gathered around the table

Watching his hands move with lightning speed,

Each of us thinks we will be the one to spot the trick.

You take my hand.

Ace under glass.

Dai Vernon once set out

On a quest to find the center dealer,

The perfect card sharp,

The prestige.

In Kansas City

He found a gambler who lost the ultimate bet: Too perfect.

The trick is lost if no one knows what you’re doing.

Now you and I sit at the table watching the magician

And we marvel at the way illusion is presented.

The true art is not so much in the sleight of hand--

A trick is a trick--

But in the presentation of options

Of miracles,

Wonders

We want to believe.

You cut your hair,

Rent a car,

Hold the glass of scotch in such a way

That the ice swishes in the drink without a noise.

We wear our evening clothes,

We talk of love and kisses,

And gaze admiringly into each other’s eyes.

These are all illusions, too.

Even the magician wears a tuxedo with a tear-away back.

And yet we don’t want total honesty

We want a gentle subterfuge

A little pass on pass

Diverting our attention from the trump card

That rests on the edge of the mundane.

Tomorrow will be the day for the fights and accusations.

But right now, don’t tell me how you really feel,

Tell me what you think I want to hear.

That ace just appeared under that glass

Out of nowhere.

Learning to Say Goodbye

(written 1999)

My father fell down in the parking lot

Not bad: his hips, his bones were still intact;

Just shaken by the incident they said.

I sat there with him on the curb a while.

This man who was once all my world, my Dad--

Strong hands, proud smile and given to flirtations

Who took off work to take me to the fair--

Now stripped of anything remotely human

Reduced to drool and blood and vacuous grin,

His mind lost to disease four years ago.

A secret that his body never shared

Which shuffles on in its robotic stupor.

His tethered soul must wait so patiently

Until the body understands it's free.

Shadow and Fill

(written 2007)

Julie likes to sit on her deck and smoke early in the morning.

She inhales deeply and lets the smoke

fill up the silence with the visual noise of clouds and swirls.

She has lived her life in shadows quietly biding her time,

reptilian in her movements,

sliding into action in the dark of night.

Only when she is alone does she find true strength or resolve.

Julie lights another cigarette and holds her sway

in the mental argument she has

with all of those transgressors,

all those enemies of her state of being.

Ruthless, serpentine, she coils and strikes.

She smiles with deadly confidence.

That is, until the sun comes up

with the static and sputter of a new day

when she slides back into her body

which is cumbersome and large.

She needs her body to shield her

from the heat of day.

She hides beneath it like a cool rock.

Julie starts the morning coffee

with stiff, robotic movements.

The discord of the sunlight hurts her eyes.

She bakes biscuits, packs lunches,

sees her husband off to work

with a terse kiss and strained smile.

Then as she rides the bus to work,

she closes her eyes to contemplate the shadows.

She watches her thoughts go

slithering out the window,

sliding down the gutter,

into darkness,

into power.

The man in the seat next to her

sees a matron with a touch of gray,

her hands folded neatly in her lap.

He notices a strange serenity on her face.

Julie is grinning

because just now she is underneath the streets.

She is lithe and sinuous

and she is gliding down the staircase to her lair.

She has taken prisoners and circles the cages

keenly aware of the feel of cool reflective metal

on her skin.

Julie is immanently seductive.

Even the floor liquefies beneath her.

The darkness caresses her.

Here, Julie is raw,

and glistens with an oily power.

And those poor souls in the cages—

Some are limp and desiccated,

empty shells.

She ate them whole.

And then there are her prizes.

She will sip them slowly.

First her husband’s hands,

her neighbor’s breasts.

They will have no choice but to

watch her with those dread-filled eyes

as she quietly dismembers parts

and feeds.

She has seduced them into trance.

Upstairs, in the daylight

Julie will wear her body like an overcoat.

She will smile sweetly as she walks

past others.

She will sit at her carrel and work very hard,

all the while grinning

because tomorrow she will dye her hair

with a chiaroscuro venom.

She will shed her skin, scales gleaming.

And no one, not even the sun

will keep her from her prey.