Showing posts with label Native Americans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Native Americans. Show all posts

10.26.2020

Synthesis & first principles in poetry

 My "theory" of poetry, how I think about poetry in general or in the abstract, is idiosyncratic and fundamentally improvised.  I don't have a system or a rationale which I can advocate for or teach, as objective or universally relevant.  Nevertheless I feel the urge to organize my thoughts and defend my own practice.  Blogs are exquisitely appropriate for this kind of off-the-cuff table-talk, aren't they?  Sure, Henry.

And inevitably I'm bound to repeat myself.  I've been blogging along here for years.  Sorry about that.

I think poets are usually drawn to poetry as part of a general attraction to literature, an affinity for reading and words, a responsiveness to art and music.  And I think this "general attraction" is part of an even more basic and universal human adherence to the good and the beautiful aspects of life as a whole.  We are drawn magnetically to works of art even as they present the most tragic, painful and horrible dimensions of experience - because these works of art lend these dimensions some kind of meaning and order.  The love of art is a facet of an even more basic love of life itself - which partakes of a kind of shared sacred awe reaching back to the origins of the human race (and maybe before that).

The making and experience of poetry is part of this magic circle of a very primordial sense of awe.  The poetic Word is free, dynamic, holistic and sacred, because it partakes of this powerful aura of a sort of ontological First Principle of reality - the "ground", the source.

By no means would I wish to suggest or have anything to do with a sort of Heideggerian mystagogy or irrationalism.  But I feel that, precisely because poetry is linked with this very basic and universal, this "anthropological" first principle - an innate sense of awe before the wholeness, oneness and power of life - it therefore aligns with the universality of reason, logic and science.  Reason (as Fichte, Brightman and of course many others have argued) is both analytical and synoptic.  We analyze to apprehend and distinguish; we synthesize to understand.  Poetry is no different.  What poetry adds to this rational and philosophic drive toward comprehensive understanding is a kind of aesthetic reflexivity.  Poetry's vivid, personal, expressive verbal enactments of communication both represent and embody, simultaneously.  This extra layer of reflexivity, reverberation, and self-consciousness accounts for the intense configurations of poetic speech (Mandelstam's crystal of "terrifying density").  

As I understand it, poetry gives voice to a subjective, and inter-subjective, dimension of reality.  It is not opposed to science as such; but it suggests and evokes this awe, this attitude of humility toward the fundamental mystery of life.  As such it is vitalist, holistic, and personal - and it presents an image of reality as a whole which corresponds to these qualities.  The struggle of the Romantic movement, to transcend the discursive rationalism of the Enlightenment, presents one of the historic enactments of this duality (subject and object, detachment and wonder, poetry and prose). 

I recognize the perhaps absurd anachronism of these principles.  But with respect to my own poetic development, one of the issues or themes that I have found so fascinating and generative is the American history of the encounter between a colonial worldview, on the one hand, rooted in both Puritan piety and revolutionary democracy based on Enlightenment ideals, and a Native American worldview, rooted in very archaic notions of just this sense of pious awe before the vital spiritual unity of life.  And I began to delve into the "anthropological underside" of my own faith tradition, and recognize affinities with primordial myths and rituals played out across the globe, from which the Native American beliefs represent one branch, and the various sources of the "Old World", another.  So I sense that underlying the tragic conflict and the criminal inhumanities of that American history, there is this basic spiritual encounter, to be understood on an intellectual, philosophical, plane as well as a purely political or historical level.

Anyway, this notion leads into some of the thematic sources and ideas which undergird my lengthy journeys through the realms of the "American epic" or long-poem mode.

& now it's late, I must hit the sack - good night.

11.16.2017

11 million light-years from Rhode Island



MORNING DEW

They’ve found another habitable planet
just in time for Thanksgiving –
around Ross 128, winking
only 11 million light-

years from Rhode Island (quiet
little red dwarf, dreaming
on its milky way).  Wing
me back to Pilgrim days... what

legend for a habitable continent
will do, now that we seem
to have gone off the beam
as human beings?  Erect a tent

for native & for refugee?
Bring in the gratitude
we understand is owed?
Who will say grace for grace?  Who, me?

The source of wonder is a mystery.
Great Rio del Espiritu
begins as wellspring too –
the stream itself is but a simile

for that invisible soul-smile
we sense, walking along
(like an unearthly song
or ghost of melody).  That aisle

of poplars on a shoreline trail...
the morris dance we trod
beneath your dome of gold
sunlight, O angel of Emanu-El...

                  *

– as when Natasha’s limping stride
befriended one forlorn
poet.  Teacher, librarian...
Philology’s sweet sister-bride...

a soul-companion, by your side.
Flowers are immortal,
& tomorrow... is for all –
Love’s welling fountain will abide.

Autumn is in the air.  Ides
of November, by the iron
Eads Bridge.  Low sun,
harsh crows.  Temperature slides.

That legend of Thanksgiving Day
(tables for everyone,
Pilgrim & Indian)
echoes via dream-song roundelay –

Henry, Hobo – Hart, John Berryman –
Dante, at Ravenn –
Black Elk, Martin...
reeling in Psyche-Restoration;

bright Rhodos-Imogen of Liberty
harbored in moss-green
robes of copper sheen;
the rippling well of Lincoln penny

radiating hopeful trust (humility).
An arc out of river water
sparkles like dancing laughter –
morning dew splashing basilica (for free).

11.16.17

9.22.2017

equality knocks



FLIGHT-PATH

The heavy freight cars clinky-clunk
across the iron bridge.
The fright none can abridge,
tribes’ crimes, no matter how deep-sunk

beneath Big Muddy waters of oblivion...
a heap of birds, still footloose,
shoeless (moccasins,
not lady-slips) – each alien citizen

from Cloud Man Village (in mirrors
near Mirror Lakes).  The DNA
gets even with Edina,
Adam – eidolons of Mendelssohn longeurs

gone wilder now, gone weedy, native.
Your nimble paeans, flying
yeast to west, are tying
knots of soul pain into silos – jive

dives backwards (ortus/porta) –
Heidi skips Handel
by hand – O almond
rod of generations!  Your vice-versa

treads of controversy flipper
the dial upon a human
(orant) golden mean.
Gaunt sundance of elderberry skipper

deep within the pilot-whale
of Jealousy – hurt pride
taken for cane-ride
through hell-hole, pole to pole

                 *

until you turn a new triangle –
in Bermuda, Berkeley –
by the Western Sea,
where Empire meets the salty shingle.

Reverse the langish!  Scrape the jam
off the doors!  Behold
What-th’Dicken’s-Son would fold
into an origami florilegium!

Cloud Man Village lasted one decade
in Minneapolis, where we
ten-thousand-century
people have planted roots – jewelweed

4th of July parade, indeed!
– a Black Elk hexagon
or hazel moth, gone
in the wrinkle of a wavy diamond.

Systole, diastole... orange arcs
repeat heartbeats,
where azure shelters fleets
of sails... flight-path of firefly sparks.

In Cloud Man Village, where the theft
& violence are felt,
are lifted with a grain of salt
to taste the bread of silo pain – deft

metamorphosis of Yahweh wrath
to steady charity –
calm spun-gold chariot,
cedar Melchizedek love-bath.

9.22.17

9.09.2016

Pines in Atlantis-land


STANDING ROCK

In the powerhouse of Providence
lame little Eddie Poe
must play the game hero –
like a minnow tar, fire-pitted mensch

against Mini-Mini-Tick Leviathan,
his haunt of fearful gravity.
His force is a depravity
of animal instinct – Heraclitean

axis of control – apes’ pecking order,
magnified by policy
(raison d’état, you see).
O too-familiar monster, O – our

puzzle-master, oiled in wrestle-hold,
whose flags flap overhead
above each engineered 
corpse-shed (floods memories untold).

The silver dime, Elsie – your Grecian
Artemis – will not
suffice; this Ariadne-knot
must be released, for peace to reign

the dam must burst; an equilibrium
of equity must level out
the bruised minefield.  Bright
misery in wells of eyes... come,

Maggie Shekinah, come Galilean
Buffalo Gal (Eureka-
Psyche)... Standing Rock
pines in Atlantis-land – rise up again.

9.9.16