2014 01 22
What do we write about, we wandering souls,
who explore weird world with our eyes and hands?
I transform perceptions of my clear eyes
every new day in blank book of lost dreams.
Most literature and poetry is about sex,
how men and women interact to procreate,
and how societies clash in war and peace.
I am writing my epic poem about scientists
who observe the world and develop laws
about creation and the process of life.
Flowers and vines and pines together thrive
in the same rich soil of our rain-soaked dreams,
so write what poems illuminate your mind.
The poet is an alchemist who gathers
raw materials of subject and concept,
gleaned from experiences of human life
when people interact based on desires,
and casts them into flowing lines of words
that reveal mystery of human nature.
I am assembling invented personalities
by painting masks of Greek philosophers
and exploring their lives and ideas
in coherent narrative tales of events
from childhood exploration through hunger
and joy of discovering nature of life,
then end every tale with their mute death.
All these incantations of verse you post
seem like fragments of a vast epic tale
about a blind pilgrim in a labyrinth
of dreams who leads us to lost paradise.
So far beyond the horizon of death,
I climb the high mountain to reach the stars
and see the whole world spread out far below,
the little village inside ring of stones
where I was born and lived my entire life.
Who would fear sinister conspiracy
of devious poets organizing texts
to rewrite history of victory?
Who straps loners to the chair of despair
and pries their eyes open so they must watch
endless movies of violence and rage,
like the cruel criminal in Clockwork Orange?
How many angry young men were constrained
and brainwashed by lies in movies and books,
then grasped silver guns with their trembling hands
and hunted noble leaders of the mind
to assassinate our kings and messiahs?
You invent conspiracies of intent
where lone people tried to assert their will.
You should write poems because poets contrive
connections between unrelated things
and weave grand collage from random events.
I never guessed when I began to dream
that these poems, which I write to express visions
of struggle to live flashing in my brain,
are autumn leaves that crumble in our hands.
I wear masks of people dead long ago
and dream their agonizing quest for truth
through fake theater of cause and effect.
This message has been a metamodernist test
of the world-wide poetic broadcast system.
Had there been a real existential crisis
you would have been asked to improvise a poem.
Poetry is when human mind transforms
concepts and images with flames of feeling
into new arrangement that reflects vision of life.
Poet dreaming scribbles of flashing words
oscillates between their eyeball and thing
to zap phone wires with message between poles
of mockery and respect for our song.
Perhaps God is the Oscillating Eyeball
which sparks virtual world to glow in our brains.
Arriving at the Writers Conference
under orange drizzle of Seattle dawn,
crowd of writers flow in convention center,
each poet fixing their eyes on a smart phone.
A thousand years ago a man in France
wrote the greatest epic in world literature,
writing for thirty years on stacks of parchment,
but the bitter winter he died from pneumonia
his wife burned the entire epic for warmth.
I prefer facts researched and proved by science
over glamorous fantasy of desire
because truth is the most beautiful poetry.
Once your fingers dance, visions of life flow
and leave dark footprints in words of your poems.
I sit alone with you by apple tree
and read epic poem that Keats never wrote,
written in starlight blossoming as flowers.
Because there is no self, or eye of I,
nor narrative of cause and effect progress,
poetry is the mask we invent from hope
to represent our darkest fears of death.
Though millions are uninterested or confused
by visions of life that sprout from his verse,
we happy few are inspired by Shakespeare
and wear the masks he carved from hard emotions
to play our truer selves on stage of life.
While form of poetry is musical verse,
elegant dance of undulating sound,
content of poetry is vision of life,
represented by characters in masks,
the complete ontology of existence
that explores physical nature of souls.
Since fame and prizes seem to kill the Muse
and leave poets muttering dull nonsense,
I hope to die unlaureled and obscure.
The soft voice of the individual soul
is a clear wave in the ocean of song,
splashing memories on the shore of silence.
Homer and Shakespeare, wise wizards of words,
are the two greatest poets of all time,
so why would I follow anyone less?
I decided to design a theme park
that reconstructs Miletus and Athens
where worshippers will read the Hermead,
my epic tale about philosophers.
We are the poets of the dreaming world,
gathered on the shore of Memory Lake.
Our songs form the epic of human life.
We have evolved up to a higher state
of consciousness as man who narrates tales,
so now we are species Homo Narrata.
Now that I have become Narrating Man,
if I had a thousand years of life to write
I would compose an epic narrative tale
on the life of every person who ever lived.
When I open the blank book of lost dreams
I find the lost epic of Keats inscribed
with fairy blood in Moon Letters that gleam
only on the seventh blue moon in spring.