What Little I Know

Autumn is  

savory incense:

some sort of floating spice 

inside my head.

 

The change devours me 

and I want it to,

need it to,

 

change everything.

 

After being close to death

there was, for a while, 

an impossible rest,

all glitter and mist.

Nothing was too serious to fear

and nothing was serious enough, so

somehow I knew hope would

hunt me down no

matter where I landed.

 

That's the promise

of believing, 

I mean, the

promise of

knowing.

 

The sky is one

operatic note,

 

a single shade of 

clarity,

 

an inside-the-sapphire 

blue.

 

Give me another dose

of that knowing—

a calm refined by age,

pious as the buck

rippling through 

the shadows.

 

Though rambling like the

adoring template of Creation

and out of reach when

the heart slams shut,

 

Truth is always here

in the light and the dark,

in reason 

and in madness.

 

It's the angel-speak

above the brawling chorus,

 

the unmoored moon

dragging too many secrets

 

and all that they told me

love was.

 

So what do I know?

Only that I know very little—

perhaps just a vain 

blink in the void,

 

and that's fine,

I'll take it,

 

all is well

 

when the Source of 

all wisdom

is here. 

 

Patricia Joan Jones

 

 

 

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life_used_to_be_lifelike's picture

I do not think I have ever

I do not think I have ever come across you until tonight. Even though you've been a member for 20 years, you are absolutely a breath of fresh air to me!!! This is an amazing write   "Truth...in madness"   I fear us poets are all just a wee bit mad/insane/deeply disturbed. I shall keep checking out your work!


"It is a terrible thing to be so open. It is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world" -- Sylvia Plath.

patriciajj's picture

Thank you for such a kind and

Thank you for such a kind and uplifting welcome! I have read some of your stellar creations (You're amazing!) and I'm deeply moved and honored by your support. I'll definitely return to your page. 

 
SSmoothie's picture

Just breathtakingly gorgeous!

Just breathtakingly gorgeous! Hugss 


Don't let any one shake your dream stars from your eyes, lest your soul Come away with them! -SS    

"Well, it's love, but not as we know it."

patriciajj's picture

Dear poet, it's the greatest

Dear poet, it's the greatest pleasure to receive such encouragement from a wordcrafter I admire. Thank you!!!

 
S74rW4rd's picture

One of my personal delights

One of my personal delights on postpoems is to comment on Patriciajj's poetry.  I compare this to the interpretive work done by a minor poet, Samuel F. Morse, on the poetry of Wallace Stevens.  Some of Morse's conclusions were overturned later on; but so much of the later work was built on his foundations.  Morse had the privilege of watching the Stevens canon expand before his eyes---an experience which, as an undergrad, I envied; and which Patricia's work has given me at this late stage of my life.  That is why I say, repeatedly, that the posting of a poem by Patricia is an event.  She is one of the pillars of postpoems, and she is building---like Stevens and Eliot---a great epic which will be more than the sum of its parts.

  This particular poem is a little different than what I am used to reading from her; and I do not write that pejoratively---because different is not pejorative.  I must borrow---from Mallarme, Valery, and Eliot among others---the comparison of poetry to music.  Keeping in mind that this poem is part of her overall canon, difference is functional---the way that the various movements of the symphonic form, or of a sonata, are different.  They tell me that, while writing his epic poem, The Aeneid, Vergil wrote different parts of it not in chronological order, but as the mood struck or suited him, and then he assembled the various parts into the version we have now (and still it was not completed).  I think this is how Patricia's epic is developing:  she does not start writing at point A, then on to B, then C; she writes as her soul's moods direct, in the way that Vergil did.  This similarity to his method increases my admiration of her.

    The poem begins in Autumn which, in my vicinity, is always a season of dramatic change; a season that has always seemed to me to be more spiritual than Summer, and I presume that she has experienced this effect as well.  As the poem moves through its process, we find two centers of gravity---in the lines "That's the promise / of believing," and then, "all is well."  The first of these two is a promise given only for the act of believing; which is, in the moment of believing, the supreme experience; but the result of that believing is that "all is well."  When we believe, we place faith in something greater than ourselves; and the placement of that faith leads to the final, and most desirable state of being, when and where all becomes well, so that believing is satisfied by the wellness of its existence and the environment in which that existence thrives.  And between the soul's believing, and the bestowal of wellness upon the believing soul, Truth reveals itself always present, in light and darkness, in reason and madness; and its function is to reveal all that Love is.

    The Poet mentions "a vain / blink in the void" and then declares it fine, and that it is acceptible.  But something else, something more glorious, is being transacted bu that vain blink in the void.  I believe---although I am unwilling to engage in a debate over it---that human beings are the sole consciousness of the Cosmos; and, although we are part of it, are supreme calling within it is to explain it to ourselves, and therefore to itself.  And the sum total of our explanation may very well seem like a vain blink in the void.  Just as we occupy a relatively small planet in orbit around a minor star that happens to occupy a remote position at the edge of our galaxy's disk-like shape; like a dust mote on the edge of a frisbee.  Because we, as human beings, are given to the sin of Pride, we have been placed at the edge of things (on the galactic scale); but from that position, which eliminates all pride of place and position, our vain blink in the void continues to assemble the supreme explanation of the Cosmos to ourselves and itself.  What happens when we reach the conclusion of our explaining?  The Cosmos will grant us an even more transcendent vision or version of itself; the spiritual version, perhaps.  Poets---especially those who command the verbal and poetic stature of Vergil and Patriciajj---will be responsible to complete the explanation, and then to guide us into the next level that opens up on the completion of that explanation.  That is why this poem, and the Poet, can say, "that's fine / I'll take it / all is well."

   In Jeremiah 29:11, God declares to the prophet that the nature of God's thoughts toward us are thoughts of peace, to bring us to an expected end.  I think God has built this into the Cosmos that we are explaining to ourselves and itself.  (Proverbs 25:2 tells us that part of God's glory is to conceal things for us to find out; and that is the foundation of the Cosmic explanation that are Poets are putting together.)

    Wat back in 1978---at least, I think it was summer of 1978---I read an essay by the poet Diane Wakoski in which she discussed a poem by Stevens (I think it was "Peter Quince At The Clavier"), in which . . . as I remember . . . she said that one must notice all the nuances, of the poem; not just reading face value, but also in between the lines and around their contours.  This is also a good reading strategy for reading Patricia's Poetry---as she continues her epic, and lifelong, participation in the Poetic explanation of the Cosmos to us, her readers, and to itself as well.


Starward

patriciajj's picture

You never fail to amaze me

You never fail to amaze me with your intricate yet immense analysis of my work. From start to finish you examine each nuance, reflection and metaphor with an almost psychic comprehension as if you were the linguistic version of a physicist viewing subatomic particles under a microscope. And if that wasn't enough, you wield anecdotes and allusions like a pro.

 

Your generous reviews are certainly motivation for me to try to find the time in my harried, distracted life to scribble a few more expressions.

 

I simply couldn't find words worthy of my gratitude if I groped for them all day.

 

A resounding "Thank you!"

S74rW4rd's picture

First, I must apologize for

First, I must apologize for the uncorrected typo(s) in my comment.  I am a very poor keyboardist and proofreader.


I have said before, and I shall say here again---whatever is in my comments on your poems are inspired by your Poems.  I have often imagined a metaphorical astronomer, not only watching a constellation emerging into the sky, but emerging among all the other stars as a background to it.  This is what your Poetry is like:  a constellation in and of itself, but also set among the background of your Peers:  Vergil, Stevens; and, inspired by the grandeur of this perspective, I have the privilege to look starward (if I may be permitted the pun) to write about your Poems as they emerge.  I do not doubt, whatsoever, that future commentors, literary critics, and graduate students writing their dissertations will overturn some of my conclusions:  I know only expect this, I welcome the likelihood, because that process will acknowledge the lasting value---the staying power, so to speak---of your total work.


Each of your poems grants me the privilege of looking starward.


Starward

patriciajj's picture

Whether looking starward or

Whether looking starward or inward, in intricate observation or expansive analysis, you are a superior interpreter of poetry and I'm sure I can speak for other writers honored enough to receive your reviews, you are cherished here.

 

My deepest and far-reaching appreciation.

 
S74rW4rd's picture

Thank you, and still I missed

Thank you, and still I missed the typo:  "I know only expect this" should have been "I not only expect this."  I sincerely apologize for my carelessness.  


Starward

patriciajj's picture

No problem!   Typos are such

No problem!

 

Typos are such a common thing because our minds go faster than our fingers and it's so easy to make mistakes on a keyboard (Remember in the old days we were forced to go somewhat slow on a typewriter and you always knew when you made an error?) that I hardly recognize them anymore. In fact, my mind usually does an instant autocorrect when I'm reading anything online nowadays. 

 

You're such a supreme writer and I'm always very aware of your physical affliction so I don't pay it any mind if a tiny error pops up. The fact that you're so conscientious about it is confirmation of your intelligence and high standards. 

 

Thank you again for your superb and thrilling feedback. It means so much. 

S74rW4rd's picture

Thank you for your kindness. 

Thank you for your kindness.  This has been a rough week:  both my spouse and I have been afflicted, in our hands, with what is either flared-up gout, or arthritis.  And yes, I do remember the typewriter keyboards, on which I was much better (and my hands not gout-ridden), and I could tell when a mistake was struck (then the carriage goes back, zing!, with the ring of a bell, and an eraser or white-out went to work).  Thanks for your understanding, and reminding me of some pleasant memories from my high school days.


Starward