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A Poem for 2017 and Every Year That Follows

For his wonderful collection of short, imaginative poems from world literature, called The Sea and the Honeycomb, Robert Bly rewrote Frances Desmore’s translation of a Chippewa poem.  And I think that it’s crucial to notice,  in these days of promoting esteem for a misconceived and egotistical “self,” that the poem’s last line does not read “I am flying”:

           Sometimes I walk about pitying myself,

           and all the time

           I am being carried on great winds across the sky.

 

rising-wind-from-the-sea-by-lawrence-russ

Rising Wind from the Sea – by Lawrence Russ

 

 

 

Summoning the Genie’s Power – Post 1

"The Power That Builds in Solitude" Lawrence Russ

At the end of my last post, I promised you testimony to a particular power of art.  The photo of mine above has a title relevant to my purpose:  “The Power That Builds in Solitude.”  Though I’ll talk about writing poetry, what I want to show you is the creative power that certain photographs can help to bring us, in writing poems, and, I believe, in other parts of our lives.

Good poets know that inspiration has to be courted patiently, has to come to the conscious mind from beyond it.  So poets have developed strategies for diverting the willful mind, in the hope that it will open more readily to the gifts of the poetic genie, or, as we call her, the Muse.

One of the challenges in writing good poetry, and the need for methods to meet that challenge, comes from the fact that parts of our conscious minds, especially our egos, work against us in creative endeavors.  The suspicious watchdogs and fearful censors in our mental life try to keep things “under control,” walling out the pesky or potent spirits that live in the dark beyond conscious awareness.  We dismiss the inexplicable; we want to ignore, to protect ourselves, from what we seem unable to comprehend or command.  As a result, we need ways to distract the guards at the bridge, so that the contraband of the imagination can be smuggled across the border.

Gertrude Stein would park at a crowded Paris intersection when she wanted to write.  The noise of traffic and passersby would drown out more chatty, deliberate thoughts.  Hart Crane wrote by candlelight, drinking wine, listening to jazz.  An early teacher of mine, the poet W.D. Snodgrass, said that he continued to write rhyming poems because the task of searching for rhymes tied up his more calculating mind, giving inspiration the chance to slip the unexpected under his door.

And I developed my own kind of ritual for letting in the moonlight.

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