The True Difficulty Of The Poetic Notion— Morning Papers IX
Bore Me Not With Poetry That Wins
To scandalize you, I will say that most Poetry Bores me; Not to contest the airways of all and around with the dullard’s remarks of an aged cage that bears evil teeth late at night; No, rather, it gives me a chance to speak of conditions — there will be another piece in pure jest arriving to ya on a later day about the first line — What is ya saying, Mate? Well, this is it; it is well — No, rather it's a piece of flattery for all those who capture that fringing, finite—passing thing called Poetry; Our Poetic Notions;- like the moments they transverse, to capture it, this thing, it’s only briefest of moment’s — Out, out, Brief Candle.
Perhaps I forget that, that luckily arriving happenstance of that notion, perhaps I forget about it, in my ludicrous abundance of it. I suppose when you age, you’re spoiled and numbed out of certain essences of life, like beginnings but hey-dear, no space here for this old fool’s times. To arrive back where we were — of all the conditions one may write in — having to write, perhaps to save themselves from innumerable troubles within or all around; perhaps a civil war of multiple dimensions;- Perhaps they’re locked in a sort of death race against themselves, for whatever reasons, perhaps blindness or impotence of the mind is rushing — seizing, stealing upon them by the manners of reaching the limit of their age;- whatever age that may so be. We don’t all die at equal times to one another — though their experiences may retort at that pithy claim!
They say, the contagion for writing spreads easily on the bills — the refined broach the rest of us ever finer still; I couldn’t ever say that was totally true, I’ve heard and witnessed so many Writers who do lose it; the will to write, their sanity, their very livelihoods. If some kind of force was abiding them, fairness maybe not in their reign — though, to say none of that was the fault of their own, would be sanitizing it for a good jab at Gods and Stars, when sometimes, the person wills in their own destructive ends. But we do love a good story where it prevails, where we can see ourselves in it — we’re hushed self-ramblers, why even try to hide it? Though, we aren’t all the same in that! Pff!
They say also a jabbing God will be the adjudicator of all your mighty works; by some divine repetition, you may not cease to be. Though so many wish for that providence to say — though most aren’t arriving to such, and are getting bitterer ever still! Though some do love it all when it fails! Some also love it when it all comes down a-dying; living only becomes the worthy expanse when death is reproaching your wasted time, and indecision. But dearest Doctor, ’tis not the time for such dilemmas, you know that — Right you are, Doctor! — does it disturb the reader, I may only be talking to myself at this point. In all my ramblings? — I know it to be so.
They say also, working all lonesome when you could be having fun with, not with me, but them! is a foolish errand; Oh! How little do they know that most creation happens in apt silences and solitudes? And most aren’t willing to shut up and hear those O; Mystic chords that ripple and flare to abide you by and by. Sometimes, to becalm yourself to a working silence may be the peddling vantage point you need to even contend yourself into being; and that is known to you by your reflection — your History if you’re willing these ideas to reproach your mind. Sometimes, you need the good Doctor to stand out of your line of sight or for them to shut up for a good moment; that can also work wonders!…
To tally the widening and ever-there truth that most Artists — the ones that dare to be away from the crowds overlooking within thence — are aborted, adjected to a life of aloneness and toil; it was the writ to be. Meant to be by their minding. Aloneness isn’t loneliness; toil isn’t a burden when you’re toiling the right burden so; Incapable of feeling vain love doesn’t mean you’re not capable of maturing love — Compassion. One shouldn’t find reasons to bitter themselves to their form and act upon it — even I care to regard that meaning as true and total in all prospects, It seems shambolic to state.
Hardly, can it be surprising when one does make the excitement caused by the adulations of suffering into a thinly veiled craft — that is one thing, but to turn that passion with or away from pain, into art, is rarely seen, though the desire to is vast — seemingly selling to the prices of hope — whatever that forecloses on Yet most remain in squalor and by the contempt of rapturous fools that doeth cry sham unto the valleys of wasted deaths. Or be the pitiless vendor of their sex in the blockaded silence of their imprisoned—sounded words. Becoming the prisoner of Fascist cooperations and facsimiles pressed by a gormless crowd — Their voice becomes meaningless in the rafters by the range they put themselves into — or rather, are allowed to. But I feel a tangent becoming of itself, unclear, so Doctor, time to step away before we follow you down the pit of rambles!
In short — to have pinned on your car: Don’t become the Republic that argues over nothing—wasting liberty of time, and all multitudes of the meaning — allowing serpents to reign havoc inwardly-to-outwardly approaching boards.
So well secluded! — they won’t pipe up on my madness! These conflations the Poet imbues us upon, in these ravaging escapades —
But, Doctor, I cannot have the moment for outrage—for you must conclude, and we to go about our days; perhaps a little daunted ever further, but perhaps possessing the particular tools to curve down these icy walls all around us, sent seemingly by heaven to turn us asunder by our fears to one another.
As I reflect back upon a time, upon the figures I have known, upon the failing and ailing artist to failure. By the sway of the pendulum, I can recall. I do despair sometimes — I’m not one to openly do so, I know my rippling waves which are sent by doing so, but sometimes I do ask this question: What does it do but bring someone to the pinnacle of contorted death away from lodestars? If the artists' life could so simply be held, but even the most simple of lives have their own measures of pain. Funny, isn’t it — I remain flabbergasted by it.
Stronger and stronger do I wonder about where they went next? After such dreams are halted. Done, Brief candle. Hushed by terminating winds — away from friendships and warmth; Sometimes, the images I conjure are too stark to volumize into words. These children growing up on a beating realization;
The unalterable realization that in each new room on this revolving lazy Susan; closed away in the library — the forceful tact perceives you to surmount the abiding blade of nihilism, running its course along your once tender skin, once lacking — now unavailable from all wrinkles and lies that go in tendon for the pattern of failing years; All memories of yourself there, bare on your skin, unavailable to recall, by the crushing done by the weight of lived years. Ah, not now — never now, I want to hope — hoping ever still, though I know.
Retorting to the rest, talking about You — whether you’ll be, or are, or have been, you can serve that apathy most artists— even to the most brilliant amongst them; even by just turning your head aside, silence is witnessing — most are chided and disregarded in their own times, yet all cannot escape their own times as well; They won’t be all treated the same. Art is memory, a fabric pattern meshed altogether by the heaving and contractions of any time and the individual in circuited place.
Whether you turn your head aside or remain to witness what is or has taken a piece, don’t you think it may be better to look at the grudging artist than the billiard board filled with the laces of amnestic order?
Oh, Doctor! This is why one doesn’t turn briefly grime in the mornings — Ta-ta now! Briefest of candles.
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