I was drawn to poetry in my mid-teens, a time of personal and social upheaval. Ginsburg, Kerouac, Frost, Eliot and Pound all shaped my thoughts, ideas and understandings of the craft. I was, for the first six or seven years of my poetic career, strictly a “high-Modernist” in both attitude and performance. In fact, it was through tracking and researching the many odd references and quotations contained within these poets’ works that my poetic education began in earnest. The lines and ties between printed words and their immense body of knowledge and understanding acted as a catalyst toward further and deeper understanding of my own craft. Dunne, Baudelaire, Rimbaud and Ford Maddox Ford were discovered between lines and in footnotes or companion volumes. Joyce remains a minefield of missed connections and great possibility. Continue reading
This, in my mind, will probably take place as the second or third section of a larger work.
At night I dream of Pound at Rapallo.
Serene, overlooking a shore
that had overtaken kingdoms.
Skin like the sand.
And I dream
of becoming one with the Earth–
a single piece of glass, forgotten
as footsteps danced upon my face.
Waking as wonder as flesh turns
to wet leaves and crumbling dirt.
Now, sitting with the “Men who knew Oppen”
is like reading to the dark hum
of some stainless-steel blender.
How is it, then, that we cannot agree-
We will not agree.
(And we shall have no sane man again?)
“But-” my small voice begins, “what of clarity?”
The raven-haired fellow by the lamp
gives me a dirty look as voices, again,