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@ 27.105 MHz: Galacticies; Sic Itur Ad Astra
"Macte nova virtute, puer, sic itur ad astra.'
---Vergil, The Aeneid, IX
The journey, and not the proposed destination;
the process and not the finished product,
demands your full attention and effort.
Partly disfunctional, and repair a long way---
and a long time--ahead (if possible at all;
but that prospect only leads to despair),
your once sleek ship will never likely come
to the planet you have long sought; that whole
world that follows its orbit's perfect curve
and is sheathed in the sheerness of a fully
unflawed atmosphere (opaque only at
the poles). No, the moment of arrival,
mounting after a compelling ministration,
will never come to the desired conclusion
that you have long contemplated, and for which,
in your earlier age, and fresher piloting,
you easily strived and nearly always achieved.
The crush of disappointment can be eluded;
the habitual thoughts of failure can be avoided.
The lemon, that most ancient and rarest of
earth's legendary and bountiful fruits,
can be squeezed into cool, refreshing lemonade.
Honed to precision by the unforgiving edge
of imputed failure, you can begin to describe
the locations and natures of hitherto uncharted
stars; those that because of shape, or size,
or the contrariness of some who claim to be
devout astronomers but are not (and complain
like loveless old spinsters in the presence of
beautiful that reminds them what they lack).
Let your words spurt forth in the sevenfold
expansion of inspiration; let them convey,
from every possivle aspect, every possible facet,
as much detail as your analysis can gather,
for a most intimate collected volume that asserts
the most intimate and accurate knowledge.
Yes, admittedly, this must be accomplished
by the senses you have been given,
and not just the theoretical vagueness
of mathematical theories so prized and touted
by persons for whom the fully sensory
experience has been obstructed or constipated---
mostly by their own obstinacy and prejudice.
The theoretical is always controlled, compelled,
and conducive to their ardently protected
comfort zones; suborned and subjectified.
Whereas the less complicated observable
may not always be mathematically classified;
but is, by the object's existence in reality,
interpreted by the verbal variations of poetry,
are always in the movement of becoming
utterly and entirely vivified.
Starward
Such a vast and versatile
Such a vast and versatile repertoire of ideas from your imagination! You'll never hit a wall. And this metaphorical odyssey is an example of your innovation.
The first lines, the perspective of the journey, more than the destination, being worthy of our focus, was the perfect lead-in to a very symbolic mission where failure turns into an inner triumph, something eloquent, a journey in itself and a very significant undertaking in spite of what seems to be wasted years and the frustrating closeness of the planet. (A beautiful image that enhanced the feeling of devastation. Good move.)
The narration is crisp, introspective and polished, creating a smooth ride through the crush of disappointment into the realization that perhaps something more profound, a higher purpose—the wonders of infinite space, was discovered.
"Honed to precision by the unforgiving edge
of imputed failure, you can begin to describe
the locations and natures of hitherto uncharted
stars . . ."
Radiant and dramatic lines that metaphorically can make the reader conclude that no life, no matter how troubled, is ever wasted. We can't get it wrong. We can only fail to see the gifts we are given so we can let our words, as you
so strikingly wrote:
" . . . spurt forth in the sevenfold
expansion of inspiration . . . "
The conclusion is mind-bending in the best way:
" . . . the object's existence in reality,
interpreted by the verbal variations of poetry,
are always in the movement of becoming
utterly and entirely vivified. "
And do it ends on a note of renewal . . . our story never ends, it is only reinterpreted and reborn. A deep, unique and imaginative metaphor to live by.
You have given me so many
You have given me so many fine comments, but on this poem---of which I had severe doubts both while writing it and after posting---has been validated by your interpretation, which is not just a comment but an essay. Not even my college professors---indeed, not anyone I know or know of---has given me such an extended response to one of my poems. In a hundred lifetimes, I could not adequately repay my debt to you---for your kindness, your supportive encouragement, and for all those magnificent poems you share with us----but part of the purpose of eternity, I think, is the opportunity to really thank those who have touched us most profoundly. In high school, Milton gave ne a sense of the epic of poetry even in an uneventful life. In college for the first two years, Eliot showed me the relationship between faith and poetry. In college the second two years, Stevens taught me how poetry could exist depiste the intrusion of jobs, bills, and the "herd mentality." And then, forty years after college pushed me out (they called it graduation) into the real, and really mundane, world, I was blessed to find your poems, which will be the grand finale of my reading experience---no matter how long I remain here. After all that those other poets showed me, YOU showed me the Cosmos.
Starward
You're always welcome. And
You're always welcome. And your reply: sheer beauty. You're a poet even in your prose.
Thank you. To me, your words
Thank you. To me, your words carry the most important poetic authority. Thank you.
Starward