PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I will eventually. Been very: I will eventually. Been very busy lately.

This is one of the most: This is one of the most important comments I have ever received, and has made a dismal day much better than I expected it to be.  Although quite unworthy of it, I cherish it.  But I am even more excitedly enthusiastic at the prospect of some series poems from you.  That is the most important part of this comment, and I applaud your intention and await the results . . . at your convenience of course . . . with enthusiasm.  Reading your poetry is an exquisite experience; reading more of your poetry will be even more exquisite, watching you build upon an already impressive foundation.

You are more than just taking: You are more than just taking up space.  You are one of postpoems' great ones, and your poetry bears witness that encourages others.  The after five oclock drainage is, I suspect, a phenomenon of modern society; especially those of us who do not numb our brains after five with the inanity of the idiot box.  But you are far more than a mere taking up of space.  Elements that were fused together in the cores of stars constitute you physically.  Your poetry gives us the record of your soul's existence.  Much more than just taking up space . . .

Thank you.  I check my email: Thank you.  I check my email frequently for updates about the Archbishop, but nothing has been forthcoming.  I have rested very well, my first full day after a month of hospitalization.   Thank you for the prayers.  Very much appreciated.  

Dear God: Make Starward rest and ease Archbiship Paul. ~S~ 

I believe that the posting of: I believe that the posting of a poem by Patriciajj is a cosmuc event---a resumption of the first and foremost purpose of Poetry, which is to name the stars, and to explain (in the sense of bearing witness) what we have observed.  Just as Genesis shows us the first human being naming the animals, as Christ the Maker watches, so Poetry becomes the literal meaning of astronomy---to name the stars.  Patricia does that, deftly, adroitly, and with a finesse that makes the reader think she invented the concept.  It is like watching Bach assemble one of his fugues, or looking over T.S. Eliot's shoulder as he gathers several short poems into the masterpiece that became Ash Wednesday.  And I think of both these Artists as I watch Patriciajj taking her Art to the supremest level---even beyond its primary function of naming and explaining the Cosmos:  that final function is the Liturgical expression of which, having been a lover of liturgy since I was twelve years old, I have found the supreme fullness of it to be the Divine Liturgy of John Chrysostom, as practiced by the Orthodox Church.    I am not going to try to explicate this poem in my usual manner:  centers of gravity, its place in this Poet's canon (and its place in the Canon of Western literature).  I am only going to mention Pop Stevens only to say that I will not be comparing this poem to any of his, because this poem brings itself, the reader, and Patricia's entire canon (by association) into the dimension that, most recently (that is, since 1927), T.S. Eliot, Old Possum, made his own.  And she, being a canonical Poet, follows the example of her grear Predacessor by writing a supreme theological poem of spirituality without the customary symvolism assicuated with theological discussion.    They tell me that, when the Divine Liturgy of John Chrysostom takes place in language other than what is commonly knowm (in the USA, for example, American English), the participants have a fairly good general idea of what it is about even with their verbal unfamiliarity.  Old Possum and Patriciajj apply this aspect to their spiritual symbolisms and show how lilacs and orchids bear witness to the Otherworld, if only this can be explained to us by a Poet.    I am so overwhelmed by this poem, and by the mention of myself in the authorial note, that I cannot proceed with my usual comment form for a Patriciajj poem. I will, instead, use one of the most cherished metaphors, from my childhood, that worked its spiritual meaning long before I knew what a metaphor is.  From, say, 1962 through 1968, the physical venue of Easter was not in a traditional worship space but on my Grandparents' rural residence just north of Germantown on SR 4.  Having been raised on farms, they kept a farmlike look to their property.  And, like the way the Divine Liturgy brings to every Sunday a reminder of Pascha, so every visit to my grandparents' home brough me a remembrance of Easter that was tangibly, palpably, present.  This was accomplished due to my Grandfather's great delight in hiding Eggs all over the place, in a pattern that always led me to find---to discover, so to speak---the final joy, the Easter basket.  In my parents' home, Christmas was the center of the calendar; at my grandparents' home, at least for me, was Easter.  And, on any other visit, during any other season, even winter, even Christmas, the property, with so many "landmarks" (the main cottage, the apple tree, the pump box, the tall rusted trellis, the other outbuildings---a second cottage, my grandfather's huge toolshed, the plank bridge over the narrow creek that bisected the property; and, across and westward from the plank bridge, the vast wildflower meadow that always, always, at bay the shadows of the scary Walnut woods at the far west edge of their property), always, always reminded me of the most recent Easter.  It always, as soon as I stepped from my parents' car, arrayed itself in my Easter memories.  (I use the term Easter because, in childhood, I did not know more proper word, Pascha.)  And this metaphoric function is what Patriciajj's poem does as a poem:  it brings orchids, old trees, znd ruffled waters to a Pascal significane, as my grandparents' ressidence did for me during my childhood, and as the Divine Liturgy does on all of my Sundays going forward.    About four weeks ago, I nearly bled to death internally, avoiding that death by just a couple of hours and three units of blood transfused.  I believe my survival was a miracle which was directed toward a twofold purpose:  that I might become more familiar with the Orthodox spirituality to which I am an eleventh hour convert; and to allow me to see the posting of this poem of Patricia's---which, for me, will always be the supreme center of gravity in her entire canon, no matter how many of her other poems have yet to follow.      Thank you, Patricia.  I am glad that eternity has an infinite duration, as I will need that to thank you for your Poetry, and, as its center, this poem.