This River Don't Go...
I’ve been craving poetry of late. William Matthews. Wislawa Szymborska. Raymond Carver. ee cummings. Whitman. Bukowski, the wonderful vile bastard. Some temperate Sandburg (How the hold he has on me? Perhaps for my embrace of simplicity. He doesn’t make me work too hard and I like that. But he certainly worked harder than critics allow). And you, James Dickey. One drunken night we nearly made a pilgrimage to Columbia and knocked upon your door. I was too young to realize your reputation for fact. I doubt you’d have welcomed us, but I pretend that you might have. Is it true your son dropped a $10,000 movie camera in the river during the shoot of Deliverance? One of my professors told that story long ago. Timing and proximity made it believable. We all know this river don’t go to Aintry.
And back to Matthews; long ago I found a blurb of his on the Web, decided I should know more about him, and eventually found Sleek for the Long Flight in a Harvard bookstore one balmy Boston day. Best fucking eight dollars I ever spent. (Discounting a double Makers on a flight to Los Angeles way back when minis were still $4 a pop). How I envy you:
The Music Pool
You have to put your head in.
It’s so much like silence
it takes all your breath
to begin
hearing it. Then you never forget
the sound of being held
completely still by someone you love.
Soon you will undress
but not yet.
I long for the ability to express myself that simply. In person, with many, I am a long-winded, and repetitive sort. I’m not sure why. Emphasis? A narcissistic appreciation of my own voice? A lack of respect for my audience? Both likely and unlikely on all counts. Really, just another quirk of my personality. I don’t fret it that much. Not that much.
Regardless, I need a rush of creativity. My minor successes have come in the form of poetry only; and yet, I have not penned anything of note in several years. That is a bit poetic in and of itself, huh?
[I sense a bit of forced internal rhyme lingering on the horizon of my free verse way of life—like a fence of sorts, struggling to define its purpose. It is there for the citing, I am certain. I am certain].
But what spawns creativity more earnestly than… the envy of creativity? So maybe I am once again on the verge of something. I feel a storm. And I will harness a fucking storm in a millisecond. I can’t tame one, but I’ll claim it and ride it for all I can.
And to a sweet Boy with covers pulled high, I’ll always whisper poetry to you. And I won’t pester you with iambs and such. I will likely tell you just what I mean—no slight of hand here. And while I may try to pretty it up from time to time, I trust you will follow my simple meter for what it is. Just that.
Nothing fancy.
Sometimes I just like to talk poetry to you.
Sleep well, Boy.
And back to Matthews; long ago I found a blurb of his on the Web, decided I should know more about him, and eventually found Sleek for the Long Flight in a Harvard bookstore one balmy Boston day. Best fucking eight dollars I ever spent. (Discounting a double Makers on a flight to Los Angeles way back when minis were still $4 a pop). How I envy you:
The Music Pool
You have to put your head in.
It’s so much like silence
it takes all your breath
to begin
hearing it. Then you never forget
the sound of being held
completely still by someone you love.
Soon you will undress
but not yet.
I long for the ability to express myself that simply. In person, with many, I am a long-winded, and repetitive sort. I’m not sure why. Emphasis? A narcissistic appreciation of my own voice? A lack of respect for my audience? Both likely and unlikely on all counts. Really, just another quirk of my personality. I don’t fret it that much. Not that much.
Regardless, I need a rush of creativity. My minor successes have come in the form of poetry only; and yet, I have not penned anything of note in several years. That is a bit poetic in and of itself, huh?
[I sense a bit of forced internal rhyme lingering on the horizon of my free verse way of life—like a fence of sorts, struggling to define its purpose. It is there for the citing, I am certain. I am certain].
But what spawns creativity more earnestly than… the envy of creativity? So maybe I am once again on the verge of something. I feel a storm. And I will harness a fucking storm in a millisecond. I can’t tame one, but I’ll claim it and ride it for all I can.
And to a sweet Boy with covers pulled high, I’ll always whisper poetry to you. And I won’t pester you with iambs and such. I will likely tell you just what I mean—no slight of hand here. And while I may try to pretty it up from time to time, I trust you will follow my simple meter for what it is. Just that.
Nothing fancy.
Sometimes I just like to talk poetry to you.
Sleep well, Boy.
posted by Ryan at 10:21 PM
4 Comments:
Poetry is such a higher art from than prose it frustrates me to no end when I try to write it. That said, I'm a poetry snob - Whitman, Hikmet, and Rossetti are my faves.
I remember hearing a poet laureat on NPR years ago. He made two points that I've never forgetten.
1) Think poetry is old, archaic and no longer read? Put a drape over every monument that has poetry on it. Goodbye to half the stuff in DC, the Statue of Liberty and more.
2) Having national poetry month dumbs down poetry. Not everyone can appreciate poetry. Don't dumb it down. Leave it ont he pedestal where it belongs.
Gorgeous stuff, Ryan, especially the speaking in poetry to Em.
A lucky boy, he is.
Where'd you go? Are you penning masterpieces in there?
Sandburg is my favorite poet, and his "The Road and The End" my favorite poem... the one I recite to myself when feeling sad and impotent.
And I'll admit to an unnatural love for Bukowski. He's really not *that* vile. Really!
So I'll be in your hood on Sunday, leaving on Wednesday afternoon.
Post a Comment
<< Home