Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Come forth, sweet democratic despots of the west!

Here’s something Walt recently blogged through my channel:
Somewhere it is said—somewhere told—of an old Roman who exclaimed: 'Alas! Alas! Antony has a party, Brutus has a party, but the country—the country?—oh ye dullard fates! the country has no party at all!' And so with the poetry, the art, of our time: we are all partisans: few of us are orbic.
The same can be said today. Over the past few years, I’ve found myself at odds with what the business of poetry has become in these states. I’ve separated from it for the most part as well. In essence, at this blog, lately, for the most part, I’ve stayed away from commentary, and have written my poems, for better and worse, and other posts.

And so now I stand feeling alone but alive and ready to feel my way towards that orbic state, as small an orb as I must be in order to remain circular and whole.

Miguel Ruiz, in my mind a prophet for our age, no more new age than old, has written that the voice of our integrity does not speak in our own language, but rather is felt only through experience and emotion.

Poetry these days seems to walk more and more on the surface of language, whether formal or free, or some land of anti-language. Neither, I think, for the most part, lives in that world of true voice.

But poetry can and has. It might be one of the best ways to. For me. That’s the orb I want in my hand at this particular moment.

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