Bachelard, the charming psychologist of daydreams & poetry. An advocate for states of mind that, in their wishful vagueness & wayward useless dislocations, are not highly valued in vigilant hard-working caffeinated America. But he's great at evoking the nexus of reverie/imagination/creativity... eloquent (in spite of the fact that he quotes, as examples, some pretty 2nd-rate & saccharine bits of poems).

Most of Forth of July was written in a kind of productive trance. Sometimes I talk about it in the poem (this part from early in Stubborn Grew)...

Home again from London, I lay near Lucky;
a man on the sofa, nearly lucky, I lay.
A man of clay, eyes open, looking out at the sky.
As though the blurred porch window held the key.

Blue arch of sky, a flurry of pussy willows.
Out of the man of clay the heart goes out
through the eyes – a circular route,
elliptical, eccentric. Whatever nobody knows

sounds, unspeakable. Toward the willows;
toward the bent branches shading a long river,
somewhere (ingrained in the interior).
A dream of the clay man, motionless, comatose.

An image in the glass, or ghostly hum
draws breath from lakes of immobile eyes.
A statue, stirring Proven├žal sighs
from old books (Francesca's boredom), or

immobile blue-brown blur captured in a porch
windowpane. A supine, motionless man of clay.
And something quivers in his chest – today,
eternity – a key, scrambling in the latch

or Bluejay, whistling, rehearsing in the tree...
icon filling the frame for a troubled moment
like lost summer wind, crossing cement
with deep soil... infant memoir of infinity.

Closed eyes and speechlessness.
A clipper, sailing over seas of grain.
Bluejay's fiery Chippewater – a milk train
way. Eyes closed, and speechless.

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