Thought for the day : what a dreamy, ephemeral sphere poets & poetry inhabit in the world at large. That's part of its history. Part of its beauty, actually.
We take ourselves too seriously (me, especially). It becomes a career, an industry, a politics, etc. etc. And that ruins it sometimes. I probably would have stayed in the NY School orbit (30 yrs ago) if I hadn't started taking everything (including myself) so seriously.
Even the greatest achievements in art have tinges of the useless frill. The beauty of the world itself has tinges of the useless frill. It's a holiday, not everyday. A rarity. (Wallace Stevens gave this a lot of thought.)
This probably doesn't mean (unfortunately) that I'm going to stop taking myself seriously, or stop harping (as I tend to do) on arcane architectonic aspects and difficulties, deep philosophic themes, etc.
But today I want to get in touch with a younger, less socially-responsible, less ambitious self... the ineffectual bookworm nontennis-bum aesthete of yesteryear, the minor writer, the layabout. Why?
Maybe because I think poetry comes from a mysterious, almost-inaccessible region of effortless play. & also because (though I'm hesitant to acknowledge it) my own methods involve a lot of lateral thinking, serendipity, escapism.
It may be that I come across as a hopeless seeker-of-attention, with my massive blogging and endless serial poems etc... & perhaps that is the way it is. But it's also that I have simply evolved a way of writing which is not a matter of discrete individual poems; it's more diaristic & progressive. This is not so conducive to getting published (yes, I still get my steady supply of rejection slips from major poetry magazines - edited by people 20 years younger than me, and filled with work that I don't think, honestly, is as good as mine...)
I'm actually in a race against all the other American poets - my own competitive Sienese Palio - from a lazy, supine position, typing into my "Neo" (a very simple portable keyboard used in elementary school classrooms).
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