Me and My Poet Friend

Most of this blog is devoted to posts about Writing—with the rest concerning Reading and Publishing.

Some of the posts deal with the act of writing and that can be very hard to describe…

I published a novel and I’m working on a follow-up short story collection—I’ve written about this process and will certainly write more.

But, long before I wrote a novel I published a book of poetry and the final book of the series I’m in the middle of will be poetry again.

Writing about how to write poetry is a task I don’t even want to try to comprehend…

{ btw, you can get free copies of the novel and poetry book at those links up there… }

I have two good friends, whom I’ve not met in person, who are fantastically talented poets.

Today, I want to introduce you to the work of my poet-friend, John.

While trying to describe how to write poetry is beyond me, trying to tell you what to expect in John’s poetry is even further beyond my ability…

Plus, there’s the often experienced phenomenon of a single poem meaning quite different things to different people.

One thing I can say is that the poem of his I’ll share below is worth any writer’s perusal…

First, here is John’s site, Once Written.

And, here is a recent poem of his:

“Curious It Is”

Curious it is that in these few lines I find flaws
And weightlessness in adamantine words in flight
From the abstract incident and the concrete patterns of the night,
And yet, as I drown withal comes light, air, and morning, in silent thrall
That each breath brings its confession, countless dispensations of reverse
In every verse, thoughts easily dismissed as conceived; I am satisfied that here
And there again have I exhaled a truth or two. This, and as I inhale I hear
The insurrection from the gallery, the ranks of rhythm, immersed
In unintentional casuistry as much as anyone within the curse and blessing
Of abstruse allusions to possession and its loss. The final scenes are mine
And mine alone that lead me to a place somewhere in time
Between celebrated valleys of knowledge and experience addressing
Artifacts and all their codices that qualify duress and mitigate the brine
Of seas of tragedy for what the world rejects and comedy in what eternity denies.
We gather and disperse the seeds, we minor gods in ceaseless search.
No ends exist in harvests of self-satisfaction with their certainty of blight.
And which of us discerns the which through veils of light
And endless revision, design and aspiration seeded on a mountain perch
Or the imminent descent to sound the maw of landlocked gulfs and oceans?
No one here survives mortality but all will live to tell the tale
Of peoples, nations, and all such lofty wholesale tales that fail
Within the present, feed again upon themselves from springs of notions
Filled with promise and devotion, to simply prove their axioms secure:
Nor time, nor reticent imagination can define
The earthly limitation of the heavens here below a line
That pays out golden threads in pride among the weavers of this world.
How often is it so that few if any see beyond a moment’s pause
The awful symmetry between ephemeral success and devastating loss?

If it’s possible for you to relate your thoughts and feelings about this poem, I’d love to see your comments…
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