PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

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.

'shrooms were always a lot of: 'shrooms were always a lot of fun

You explain it very well, and: You explain it very well, and your explanation reads quite philosophically.  I really like that aspect of your comments.

You are most welcome. And: You are most welcome. And indeed there are fond memories from that home environment but it could also have been somewhat a burden. In homes where traditions are strong there is this unspoken expectation to carry on or to conform whereas the almost infinite varieties of poetry and art are available, certain ones are preferred by those that guide and mould you. So, in fact it can be a typecasting and stereotyping on the one hand and on another extreme could be brainwashing. By the time I was in "middle school" (not what it was called back then) our family was well and truly dysfunctional and technically a single parent home. During that period, art, music and literature became flotation devices and carried the siblings through to adulthood. And our preferences are varied and differing although we share like core influences. The range is quite astonishing, a contrast in some cases as different as night and day.

Thank you for that comment,: Thank you for that comment, and the compliment it contains.  I especially enjoyed your reminiscences---especially that wonderful phrase, "jealously guarded component of self and individuality."  That feeling of self and individuality did not come, for me, until July 10th of the following year, when Cerulean helped me find the appellation Starwatcher; but the first steps toward receiving the gift of that name were taken on October 13, 1975.  I remember very few dates from that period; I was not wise enough to document stuff in a journal.      To have grown up in a home as you have described it must have been a most delightful experience.  Poetry, except for limericks, was pretty much avoided in my parents' house.  I had been disappointing them for years, and this choice aggravated them more than any other that I had made.    I am very grateful for your comment, and what you shared with me about your background.  Knowing that information equips me to enjoy your Poetry the more. 

I re-read this comment just: I re-read this comment just this afternoon.  In my situation, I am probably closer to death now than I was when you wrote the comment and when I wrote the poem.  Although I have believed far less longer than I have not believed (I did not really become a Christian until I was thirty-five; I am now sixty-four), I have no real fear of death.  Althouogh I am not eager to part temporarily from my loved ones, I am eager to enter the presence of the Loving and Loved One who died my death so that I could live in His Life eternally.

Over eighteen years late, I: Over eighteen years late, I apologize for my delay in replying, and I thank you for the comment, and for pointing out the typo, which apparently I did correct.  I am as bad at replying in timely manners as I am in proofreading.  Please forgive me.