Morse Code into Anti Matter
Early out the door this morning to enjoy some freedom before work, I read something that has me supporting all critics, real or not yet self-actualized.
I will state it plainly: I am on the opposite side of the universe
from poetry, or at least, from that ideal.
A strange thing to hear on a Wednesday night, I know. But I have heard as much from a few sheepish friends. I know what all those looks mean.
Why proclaim such a thing?
I could reply with a million different tactics. Moment of painful epiphany? Wednesday evening self-deprication? Further confusion regarding the nature of poetry? Like the true bio, it must be proclaimed by at least one other person.
And so it has been, and a notable one at that.
“…I dream of immense cosmologies, sagas, and epics all reduced to the dimensions of an epigram. In the even more congested times that await us, literature must aim a the maximum concentration of poetry and of thought.” (Italo Calvino from Six Memos for the Next Millenium).
I have a friend, a poet, who embodies this perfectly. His work is carved from obsidian. He himself, a traveling epigram from decades of tapestried oak and Rococco visionings. I respect him immensely. His work rests on the filigree of time, and discounts, by necessity, the future of what I myself will write.
I do not know what to make of it, but I see it as clearly as I have seen anything. I am on the opposite side of the cosmos
From everything a part of me holds so dear.
Tomorrow reflects no discernable color.
The sound of everything that falls to pieces.
I will keep moving forward, for if I have learned anything in my 39 years, it's even the void
is a space that grows.
I will state it plainly: I am on the opposite side of the universe
from poetry, or at least, from that ideal.
A strange thing to hear on a Wednesday night, I know. But I have heard as much from a few sheepish friends. I know what all those looks mean.
Why proclaim such a thing?
I could reply with a million different tactics. Moment of painful epiphany? Wednesday evening self-deprication? Further confusion regarding the nature of poetry? Like the true bio, it must be proclaimed by at least one other person.
And so it has been, and a notable one at that.
“…I dream of immense cosmologies, sagas, and epics all reduced to the dimensions of an epigram. In the even more congested times that await us, literature must aim a the maximum concentration of poetry and of thought.” (Italo Calvino from Six Memos for the Next Millenium).
I have a friend, a poet, who embodies this perfectly. His work is carved from obsidian. He himself, a traveling epigram from decades of tapestried oak and Rococco visionings. I respect him immensely. His work rests on the filigree of time, and discounts, by necessity, the future of what I myself will write.
I do not know what to make of it, but I see it as clearly as I have seen anything. I am on the opposite side of the cosmos
From everything a part of me holds so dear.
Tomorrow reflects no discernable color.
The sound of everything that falls to pieces.
I will keep moving forward, for if I have learned anything in my 39 years, it's even the void
is a space that grows.