H.B. Berlow's Blog, page 15

A Writer’s Journey, Part 2

[image error]

The summer before my freshman year in high school, a reporter in Arizona named Don Bolles was murdered by a car bomb. I was not aware of any such murders of reporters before and none during my years in high school. Somehow, while planning to go into journalism, this one instance weighed on my mind. There was absolutely no viable reason to doubt the profession at all. Perhaps it was a sense of paranoia or just not being worldly enough to disregard it. I looked for something else to study.

And there it was: the University of Miami. They had a Creative Writing program. They had a Film program. And, well, gee whiz, it was MIAMI. I’m this relatively sheltered shy kid from the suburbs of Boston. What better way to become worldly?

I took Screen Writing courses. During my time there, I worked on two screenplays. One was an attempt to convert the Trojan War into the world of advertising on a bicoastal story. Rather pretentious, extremely out of reach. The other was a coming-of-age comedy about (get this!) two film students based on, well, a friend and myself. Even included the last line from “Casablanca” for just another film reference. How cheeky!

A lot of this stuff was wild fantasies, ideas out of the blue, but at the very least with the structure of classes behind me. The thing was that once you wrote a screenplay you didn’t try to get it published like a novel or a poem. You had to get it produced. Like, go to California. Hollywood. Live in abject poverty. Work as a waiter. Or a bus boy. Perhaps meet someone important. If you were lucky. These weren’t the days of internet and cell phones. I realized I had become mildly worldly but lacked the kind of confidence necessary to continue.

So, I started writing poetry. Mostly rhymed stuff. Nothing too deep. I wasn’t a Beat, a Surrealist, a Dadaist, or any other kind of -ist. I read and wished I could write better. So, I did. I continued to work on screenplays because, up until that time, it was the most training I had.

I had become a bit of a Bohemian. I did work as a waiter. I had a lot of cash on hand. I experienced people from all walks of life. I developed a personality that was all mine. But there was no direction, no thought about the future. No one in those days discussed 401k plans or life insurance or even buying a house. Had that continued I likely would have eventually broken off from the group I was hanging around with, gotten a job in which conformity would have ruled my life, and given up any artistic or literary notions.

It was then I got married.

NEXT: Trying to live a normal life

A WRITER’S JOURNEY, PART 1

[image error]

There is an apocryphal story of how I became fascinated with words and, more specifically, with writing. Back in first grade, we were given ten vocabulary words to learn on a regular basis. In order to verify our comprehension, we were instructed to use those words in a sentence. Naturally, I was amazed at what was then my burgeoning creativity.

The truth of the matter is that first grade was fifty-four years ago. This might be accurate, semi-accurate, or just a great tale. I was raised in a house in which there were books in every room. And please don’t doubt that. My parents even had a slender tome entitled “Jewish Jokes for the John” in, well, you get my point.

Reading was knowledge and knowledge was valued in my household. Neither of my parents went to college. My dad attended some trade schools. Mom worked before joining the Navy during World War II. So, for them, “book learning” was literal. Whereas our tastes in fiction were different, non-fiction reading in all kinds of categories was encouraged.

The first thing I learned to do upon taking a book from any shelf (in our home, a bookstore, an antique shop) was to blow the dust off the top, from the spine forward. It was a ritual, a kind of literary ablution. You held the book firmly on the back and carefully opened the front cover, admiring the craftsmanship of the binding itself. Given that my maternal grandfather was a bookbinder, I took to this task early on and with veneration.

The point of all of this is that the product, the item, the book itself was revered as special, almost magical. It could instill knowledge or take you away on an adventure. At some point, perhaps those first grade classes or later, I wanted to create the vehicle for those adventures.

Grade school saw the juvenile efforts of short stories that were certainly not prodigious. No one was going to identify me as the Mozart of popular literature. They were certainly derivative in nature, an attempt to replicate the stories that impressed and inspired me. There was a futuristic (something I now realize as dystopian) tale of a society in the fashion of “Brave New Worlds” or “Logan’s Run.” A multi-character Western set against the backdrop of a major poker tournament contained stereotypical characters, albeit interesting ones.

The passion was there. The desire was instilled. It was craft that was sorely lacking. I had a couple of creative writing classes in high school, dove into the term papers with all the inherent research, learned a few things from Strunk and White. I thought I was making progress. Certainly, in twelve years of public school I had. My participation in the Drama Club saw me emulating the same haminess my father displayed when he was my age. It also brought me out of my shell to a certain degree.

Those who know me now (or for some time) may find it hard to believe that I was basically shy, lacking any confidence in myself as a person. Perhaps that was due to trying to determine who I was as a person. Several computer diagnostics helped me settle on a viable career where I could write and maintain an adequate living: journalism.

That was not to be.

NEXT: Let’s see what college has to offer.

“THE ART OF LEGERDEMAIN”, A POETIC JOURNEY INTO THE WORLD OF MAGIC

On several occasions, I have referenced my peak poetry-writing period in Boston from roughly 1990 to 1994. I had started writing poetry as early as my freshman year in college (1980) and then quite a bit of maudlin “woe-is-me” stuff after my first marriage ended in 1988.

Once I was surrounded by other writers and there was a chance to really focus on craft, I had a real chance to explore, well, me! It was no more of a response to the failed relationships and missed opportunities. I was turning the microscope inward and making an assessment of who I was.

My influences were Greek and Roman poetry, 20th century European poetry, jazz, and urban life. A small grouping of poems became the impetus for a collection. It was eventually titled “The Art of Legerdemain.”

The notion was simple: a young magician learns his craft, becomes fascinated with his ability to dazzle and amaze people, and then realizes it is all for naught as his life, and his magic, are transient. So, too, is the work of the poet.

While gathering the pieces, and writing new ones, I realized I needed to tell more than this fictional magician’s story. I needed to tell mine as well. There were sections interspersed within the main narrative of like pieces to present a chapter in my life. One dealt with heartbreak; another with poetic learning and adventure. Still another section was memory pieces.

I came across it recently, re-read selected pieces that I have enjoyed, recognized it was the work of a younger man still gathering his sensibilities, but pleased at some of the outcomes and proud of the chances that were taken.

The poem titled “Wallace Now.  Stevens Later.”  previously appeared in the Mid America Poetry Review, Spring 2000, Volume 1, Number 1. It was one of the first poems written that made me think of the overall subject matter and encouraged me to pursue this magic-laden poetical adventure. I present it for your consideration.

WALLACE NOW.  STEVENS LATER

This is not time for transubstantiation.

That alchemy is left for wizards.

I know of wine & blood and lead & gold

and baser things besides.  They sit

like knick-knacks on my coffee table.

I am too fascinated by wands and canes,

cards, rings, golden cones, coloured balls,

the blur of the hierophants arms

in his many jagged manipulations,

and when a dove appears from darkness.

I stare at auroras awed,

let rhinestones glitter in my eyes.

‘Pizzazz’ to me is still a sacred word,

more holy than ‘Amen’, more sanctified than ‘Love’,

an ever-present credo of my youth.

It is the song of words that sparkles

more than the words themselves.

The magic dance, the play of light,

a language foreign to these green ears.

I hear but know I cannot understand.

W.I.P. (OR, WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO)

[image error]

Just a brief list of active or pending works in progress:

Fifth draft on book one of new historical crime fiction series. This takes place in post-WW II Wichita with a main character (private investigator) who is Jewish and finds himself caught up between the Laws of God and the Laws of man. Conscientiously avoiding stereotypical tropes of hard-boiled crime fiction while attempting to maintain the mood and tone. So far, as much research as writing.The outline for book two of aforementioned series. Now that I have a strong feeling for the main character and the substance of the series, why not?Third draft of one-off historical crime fiction novel. This was an attempt to use a small part of Aristotle’s principles of unity to a certain degree. Titled “63 Hours in Wichita”, it is largely an experiment in condensing a taut action crime tale down to basic elements in a reasonable time frame, yet using that time as an impetus to tell the tale.First draft of a pulp fiction novel. Like real old school, 50’s cheese. A paroled ex-con just trying to rebuild his life encounters a wide-ranging cast of characters, including his ex-wife, in a factory that manufactures carnival novelties. Going for dark and seedy.Reworking a transgressive novel I started over 15 years ago. It is the tale of a bored 40-something divorcee who hates his job and encounters a mentor who teaches him how to be a contract killer as a sideline. Naturally, the elements of darkness seep through this, as well as subtle commentary regarding self-help and wellness programs. This one is titled WEEKEND GETAWAYS, OR ADVENTURES IN CONTRACT KILLING.Reworking a metafiction entitled THE NOVEL TITLED “THIS IS NOT A NOVEL” in which a fictional biographer named H.B. Berlow is writing a biography of a fictional author named…H.B. Berlow. It touches upon themes in the essay “The Death of the Author” by Roland Barthes who argues against that form of literary criticism that uses an author’s biography and experiences in order to find the meaning of their work.Reworking a contemporary crime fiction tentatively titled PROFESSOR THUG. It was outlined as a tribute to a late co-worker who was truly an intellect but looked like, well, a thug. Have gone through at least three different outlines and am still trying to figure out what the story actually is.Reworking an episodic contemporary crime fiction tentatively titled THE STOOGES revolving around three guys who come together for a heist who have no business doing anything other than working in fast food. They get in very deep. This was a former NaNoWriMo project.Outlining an alternate history novel. I actually have two tracks this could run. Even though the series has ended, I started watching THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE on Amazon Prime and became fascinated by the concept. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?Outlining a two-scene one-act play. A friend who did a session at the 2022 OWFI Writers Conference provided the inspiration as well as the encouragement. My drama days were years ago. Hopefully, I’ve grown as a writer and I can do this again.

All of this is woven in between a full time job, a search for a house (as we are trying to downsize), my responsibilities as a husband and homeowner and cat dad, the various baking and cooking adventures, and whatever bits and pieces Life throws at you.

So, how are YOU doing?

“ORNITHOLOGY” – STYLE AND SUBSTANCE

[image error]

My first encounter with Charlie Parker was, believe it or not, the Clint Eastwood-directed 1988 film “Bird”, with a Cannes Best Actor performance by Forest Whitaker. As a film enthusiast, the structure of the movie in some fashion emulated the improvisational style of Bird’s be-bop. I had read an article where screenwriter Joel Oliansky indicated that was his intention.

Naturally, my intention next turned toward the music itself. It was in a time between Big Band Swing and West Coast Cool. It was a kind of music that relished improvisation, marking it as something uniquely personal to the musician. Yeah, you could play a Charlie Parker riff, but it was imitation as opposed to original. There is a famous quote by Parker that defines how he came to his style:

“…and I found that by using the higher intervals of a chord as a melody line and backing them with appropriately related changes, I could play the thing I’d been hearing.  I came alive.”

My understanding of the techniques of music is greatly limited. Chords and fingering are just words to me. But what I gather here is the notion of an epiphany. An artist, exploring their craft, being diligent, might eventually come upon a methodology or style that is completely their own. It is an understanding that bonds them to their instrument, which for a writer is either a keyboard or pencil and paper.

Just as Oliansky tried to convert the essence of Parker’s style into screenwriting (and, by extension, Eastwood filtering that into the medium of film), I wondered how it would be possible to express be-bop into a poetic form. During my peak years in Boston, from 1990 to 1994, I experimented with various forms, read books on prosody, biographies of Charlie Parker, and began to absorb to a small degree a mentality that would allow me to create a new work.

For me, it was not just about exploring Parker’s life but creating a parallel with the poet who was attempting to do the same thing: express a multiplicity of personal emotion and sentiment in a musical fashion through words. This would not be classic lyrical poetry from the Greeks and Romans, or perfectly metered songs from Elizabethans. This would be jazz infused and inspired yet standing on its own

“Ornithology” was the result. In it are three distinct voices. There is the Documentarian, reciting factual information regarding the life as lived of Charlie Parker. There would be Bird himself, those deliciously memorable quotes (“I lit my fire.  I greased my skillet.  And I cooked”), and the real impetus behind the piece. Finally, there would be the voice of the Poet, struggling to emulate the freedom and synchronicity, the balance and power of one of the world’s greatest jazz musicians.

It runs fifteen pages long, by far the longest poetical work I have successfully completed to my satisfaction. It was performed as a work in progress on the Bazooka Joe radio show on 91.5 WMFO out of Tufts University. It was performed (rather than read) by me and two others at Redbone’s in Davis Square in Somerville, MA, on July 17, 1994.

And it was eventually recorded with the assistances of two friends who were students at the Berklee School of Music on an analog four-track recorder. (It has since been converted to CD at the insistence of my wife.) The story there is the two other performers were unable to participate, leaving me doing all three voices. The only thing I have not done with it is to convert it into some kind of experimental film. These days, with the technology available to be, that is still possible.

I am particularly proud of this work for several reasons. I had an opportunity to honor a musical legend whose work is moving and fascinating. I explored a poetic way of expressing musical genius through the power of words. The flexibility of the piece made it so that it was presented on paper, recited over radio, performed live, and recorded. It is also a reminder of a time where I could freely explore my artistic sensibility without concern for how it would be sold or marketed, but purely as an act of creation.

Charlie “Bird” Parker is still, for me, a quintessential musician, a beacon of creative achievement, and a fascinating human being.  This is, and should be, the essence of all great art in that it attempts to reach as deeply as possible into the psyche of humanity and show us a window into ourselves.

PESTO, MY WAY

[image error]

I love pesto. I honestly don’t recall when I first encountered it. As a condiment or a sauce, it is fresh and vibrant. When I learned of the ingredients, I decided to try my hand at making it.

I determined what the ingredients were: basil, olive oil, garlic, parmesan cheese, and pignoli. My wife grew herbs for my culinary needs. The next three ingredients are staples in my pantry. It was the pignoli that threw me for a loop.

There was a bit of confusion while Googling it. Pignoli was a type of Italian cookie made, in part, from pine nuts, which as it turns out are also called pignoli. It was easy to determine an aromatic condiment is not made of cookies.

I harvested one of my wife’s large basil plants, a whole colander’s worth, rinsed it and dried it. Then, I got out the food processor and started the blending process. I added garlic and parmesan to taste and enough olive oil to give it a spreadable consistency. I was certain if I needed to roast the pine nuts or not. But since I thought of that while I was already in the middle of the process, I just threw them in.

The result was a green blob of a mess that had been reduced to the size of, maybe, a three-ounce jar. All that basil, an entire plant cut down, and I had zip, zilch, nada. The pine nuts did get copped up in the food processor, but upon applying it to toast, the pieces got stuck in my teeth.

That might have been he end of the experiment were it not for a fortuitous encounter at one of my favorite places in Wichita, the Spice Merchant. (I needn’t go into details about the place; just follow the link.) One day while buying coffee and other culinary essentials, a man approached and struck up a conversation. I don’t know how we got onto the subject of pesto, but there we were. He referenced having made some himself when he had visitors from Italy. The primary ingredient he used was fresh spinach and enough basil for flavor. I asked about the pignoli; he demurred indicating I could use them if I wanted. As it turned out, the man was the owner who is known for walking around and striking up conversations with the customers.

Well, the experiment was back on. A bag of spinach was easy to obtain. The new basil plant did not wind up looking like a Marine recruit during basic training. I added more garlic and parmesan, and added olive oil slowly to ensure consistency. This time, I had enough for a pickle jar.

I will spread it on a good bread and broil it to make pesto toast. I will pan fry chicken chunks, boil some penne, mix the two and a about a half a cup of pesto to make a chicken pesto pasta. It lasts a good four weeks in the fridge, with only the need to give it a stir every so often.

This one culinary example is often how I approach writing as well. There are recipes in cooking, and genres in writing. There are specific ingredients and designated tropes. There are many chefs and many writing instructors who will advise you to follow a proper procedure to ensure success. But if I wanted my pesto to taste like everyone else’s, I would just buy everyone else’s. The substitutions and varying amounts of other ingredients make my pesto different, even each time I make it. I don’t want my writing to follow the exact patterns of those before me.

For example, I am currently working on a new historical crime fiction series that takes place in post-World War II Wichita. I have created a main character who is a private detective. And I have specifically and conscientiously made every effort to avoid as many of the tropes you would find in 1940’s or 1950’s film noir. There is not cheap bottle of rye in a desk drawer. There is no excessive gunplay that seems conveniently invisible to local law enforcement. There are no offices, houses, or businesses covered in smoke.

My character is Jewish, and that alone makes him different. He struggles with issues of Good and Evil while trying to make a living. He has conversations with his widowed father. He contemplates Old Testament scripture. He has friends on the police department who are former co-workers. He has a physical impairment from service in the war.

This character engages me. He is my own brand of pesto, created differently from the characterizations in both classic and retro pulp fiction. Purists may disagree, complain, or disparage. But many will try my creations because they sound unique and appealing.

Do not be afraid to create foodstuffs or fiction that strays from the established styles. You may find you can wind up offering something utterly appealing.

POETRY, PART 4 – “A SPECIAL KIND OF LOVE”

Poetry does not have to be academic and studious. It does not have to be mellifluous and flowing. It is not required to have a social consciousness, be deeply confessional, or serious and devout. Poetry CAN be fun.

Now, I do not mean the classic form of the limerick referencing the man from Nantucket. There are pithy pieces and sly innuendo from classical poets like Catullus or Juvenal. Or the verbal gymnastics of Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress.” The speaker, who is most certainly a rake and a scoundrel, is doing his absolute best to, well, let’s face it, bed a young maiden.

Lewis Carroll has written one of the most pleasurable and entertaining pieces of poetry ever in “Jabberwocky.” Sure, it’s a nonsense poem. But search YouTube for renditions and you will come across the likes of Benedict Cumberbatch, Johnny Depp, Christopher Lee, John Hurt, and Neil Gaiman, among others. Even those of us whose voices are not profound and resonant have fun reciting it.

The following piece acquired the title “A Special Kind of Love” after its composition, the memory of which still resonates. I was a freshman at the University of Miami, 1980, waiting in the stacks of the library to work on a class project with a young lady who I vaguely recall was an easily distracted sorority girl. As was usual for her, she was late. So, I began writing a poem that turned out to be, as I would later announce, the first ever Shakespearean S&M poem.

It certainly is genteel in nature, less so in subject matter. It was a major part of my repertoire in my Poetry Slam days in Boston in the early 90’s and for friends at parties, until I had a few too many to drink. None the less, it reads as well as it is recited.

I’ll end my discussions on poetry with the bit of frivolity.

A SPECIAL KIND OF LOVE

‘Tis true she is a lady fair with charm and wit and grace

Who has a figure oh so fine and shines a radiant face.

‘Tis true she is of noble birth with wealth and means and measure.

‘Tis also true she cares for me and lovingly gives me pleasure.

And ‘tis this thing that I enjoy, the thing I most adore.

And loving her is a wondrous task; indeed my most pleasant chore.

I visit my love ‘most every day in her charming house.

But the thing that bothers me is the presence of her spouse.

Indeed he’s not an angry man nor never holds a grudge.

But when I make love to my lady fair never does he budge.

In fact he most enjoys to watch the pleasure of his wife.

And if you think this to be wrong, don’t. He’s done it all his life.

And to his back he does apply a whip of sultry leather.

He also likes to frolic in the snow and generally in bad weather.

And when there is a lightning storm with fire in the sky,

He runs out naked with a metal pole. Please don’t ask me why.

I asked my lady if she partakes in this ghastly deed.

“Oh, no,” she said, “ ‘tis inflicting pain that I greatly need.

I love to hit him with a stick and watch his rear turn red,

And grab and squeeze his private parts.” That was all she said.

‘Tis no great wonder that I left and never once returned.

My lady fair often asked herself why she had been spurned.

And so I search for another beauty with grace and charm and the like

Who is not so fascinated with whips and chains and spikes.

POETRY, PART 3 – “LOVE-SONG OF THE CONDEMNED”

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Just be careful you are not accused of being derivative or plagiarizing.

When I started writing poetry some 40 years ago, it was largely iambic pentameter, A-B-A-B rhyme schemes, simplistic doggerel. When you encounter Shakespeare, you want to write sonnets. Then, just for a change, maybe you try a different sonnet form.

High school and college gave me an appreciation of literature beyond that which was almost cliché. I do find that if you read T.S. Eliot in your 20’s (perhaps even your early 30’s, you are reading him academically. “The Waste Land” is often most people’s first encounter. It is filled with classical allusions requiring an advanced degree or, more simply, a set of notes.

For me, as I got older, I latched on to “The Four Quartets” and their introspective look at time and its passing. I’ve gone back to those pieces on many occasions, perhaps more so in the last twenty years. They resonate more as I get older.

However, the singular piece that fascinated me and inspired me was “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” While it takes several readings to gather the notion and theme (as does all of Eliot’s work), I was touched my its sentimentality as it explores alienation in a Modernist style, a way that I don’t feel the Victorians ever truly touched.

It was with this, slightly more accessible piece that I constructed my homage: “Love-Song of the Condemned.” In its own way, it describes a lost love, perilously suggesting the two are now condemned by the end of the relationship. Or is it merely the speaker who is condemned? How much of it is autobiographical, and how much is merely a uniquely crafted character?

As the piece is thirty years old, I will never be able to recollect its origins to any detailed extent. Nevertheless, I am still taken by it, happy with its form and structure, and feel it has maintained its emotional impact.

LOVE-SONG OF THE CONDEMNED

Let us try once, you and I,

To pretend that we are not going to die

While we watch the sunset on the Key West sky

And believe in the Eternal.

And maybe, just once,

Something that occurs to us will make sense

And we won’t feel foolish or lachrymal,

Welling up with tears,

Swelling up all our fears of mortality.

We have much better sensibilities:

We know what is right and what is wrong.

So you Adults and you People-In-Charge

Don’t just barge into our lives, singing

Your “Holier-Than-Thou” song.

Because we’re not buying it

Or any of the other shit

You’re selling today on prime time.

I know what’s mine, what could be mine,

And what’s never going to be mine.

 On the afternoon blah-blah show

They pretend to discuss Michaelangelo.

I’ve never been truly wrong or totally right

And I’ve been more afraid of day than

I’ve ever been of night.

And still there is always something creeping

Just outside my lone front door.

Perhaps it is the yearning of Something More

That perpetually reminds me

Of all the Passion I can’t find

In blank stares and empty places

Where the glass-entombed towers stand tall

[Where Gucci-ed execs place that cellular call

 trying to bring about their competitors’ fall.]

 On the afternoon blah-blah show

They pretend to discuss Michaelangelo.

And where are Keats and Shelley today?

Or how about a rousing Shakespearean play?

But what’s the sense of it, they say,

When that kind of stuff doesn’t break even anyway?

And the Bottom Line and In-The-Black

And Profits will prevent a stress attack.

[So long as your partner doesn’t stab you in the back];

Just as long as there’s an audience that will pay

And pay through the nose.

What then of you and I under

The orangish-reddish sunset sky?

But then I turn and you’ve run away

And I go on looking each passing day

For the reason, the answer for your leaving.

Could it be I was not enough

Or that my ways were far too rough?

Was it a mistake to call your bluff?

No matter.  I’m left here, alone and grieving.

Now I’m left here all alone.

Lord, I know it’s foolish to wait by the phone

For a mystical magical cellular call

Because, after all,

There are no phones out here under

The orangish-reddish sunset sky.

I’m growing old, so very old,

That I’m watching all I am unfold

Before my very eyes

Under these orangish-reddish sunset skies.

And, at this very moment, I wonder if where you are

You can see the same bright twinkling sky—

And with those wanting, needing eyes

You can see the same orangish-reddish sunset skies.

I’m glad they are not blue

Like mine, that always see you.

POETRY, PART 2 – “DO THAT JAZZ POEM”

Let us start by declaring outright the following commentary is highly subjective. I am neither a scholar nor a world-class published poet. From the time I started writing poems until today, 40 years have passed. My own inclinations and desires with regard to writing have substantially changed. They have segued from poetry to screenwriting to short fiction to novels. What I have learned along the way is I need to keep learning. I wouldn’t give you two cents for some of my past work, and I am entirely eager to keep writing on well into the future.

Prosody.

Does anyone even know what the word means? For that matter, in the current world of poets, does anyone care? “The patterns of rhythm and sound used in poetry.” “The patterns of stress and intonation.” You don’t even have to be a poet to recognize the expression iambic pentameter. Just read a sonnet by Shakespeare and you can feel the rhythm. You might have a harder time trying to grasp sprung rhythm as exemplified by Gerard Manley Hopkins. Or maybe you just hear a poem and sense a rhythm.

There have been countless poems throughout history whose visual imagery is stunning and evocative. But there are just as many that transfix us by a sound quality. The Odes of Horace got their name from Carmina, a variation of which, Carmen, came to mean “charm” or “magic spell”, and eventually “song.” There is a natural progression in the creation of poetry toward a musical stimulation, an aural quality far more profound than the visual one created by the selection of words. This is especially true given the oral history of poetry and story telling.

If the desire on the part of the poet is to have you “see” something, the focus will be on highly selective words designed to place an image deep inside your mind, reaching toward a collective consciousness. There has been, since the mid 1980’s, a focus on spoken word poetry and the competitive form known as Slam Poetry. The subject matter is of a societal nature. The expression is solely that of the poet/speaker. The connectivity occurs via the performance. I have heard many great spoken word and slam poets. I honestly do not actually recall reading their works and admiring how it appeared “on paper.”

My preference still is for the sonic quality. For me, there is the need to focus on word choice; however, placement within a line or a stanza in order to create a designated rhythm is necessary. Within the context of that structure, it is possible to create a visual image, a scene that has the ability to propound an idea or concept. On top of that, considering the song-like or musical quality, the piece can almost be performed, or at the very least, read in such a fashion as to project the rhythm.

I am happy for any writer finding their voice, developing their craft, and using whatever tools are at their disposal. But, just as I don’t read certain genres of fiction, I prefer my poems to come across as classic songs.

This piece, that represents my intention, was written in 2013, some 19 years after I was last in Boston. I was reflecting on the notion of how a persona is developed that can have the adverse effect of stifling progression in one’s work. It is entitled “Do That Jazz Poem.”

DO THAT JAZZ POEM

The cigarette is burning down almost to my fingers

And I’m worried that I may not be able to tap-tap

out a proper be-bop beat,

so fast, so sweet

with a whiskey burn that comes from the street.

With sweat pouring down over the keys,

I’m unable to unlock the door to

The secret revelations.

There is the heartening cry for more, Please!,

Give us your spiritual sensations.

We want, we want, we want that

Proper be-bop beat. But I can’t give

you no more, when you’re sitting on my hands.

Your unrealistic demands plead and pour

through me like altruistic sweat.

I want to ride; I want to fly like a bird,

sacred in the sky, burnt out on the ground.

I want to go my way with pride,

Long angling stride,

And so so far away from the lost and found.

You want me to do that thing,

slender reed or plucking on an A-string.

But I don’t do for you like you don’t do for me

Because you can’t see through my eyes

And never will.

You want me to do, to do, to do

to myself what I cannot do to you.

And if I go (or if I stay)

What will you say to me? Stay or go?

No. The time is ripe for a proper be-bop beat.

Listen! Sit! Yes, have a seat and I will

tell you a different story.

Keep your eyes open and alive while I

strive to reminisce. Just a little kiss

to put you to sleep

and then I’ll slip out into the night.

Wide awake the next morning, a fright

comes into your heart. What seems

to be a vanishing act

was only just a dream.  

POETRY PART 1 – “STRENGTH”

[image error]

As best as I can recall, I started writing poetry in the late 70’s, certainly around 1980. In college at the University of Miami, while studying Creative Writing and Film-making, I dabbled in what can only be described as clichés and imitations. My desire was there; my knowledge of the craft was sorely lacking. But, hey, that’s why you go to college.

After a failed marriage, I roamed, geographically and emotionally. I acquired through dubious means (not to be discussed) The Harper Anthology of Poetry, edited by John Frederick Nims. It covered a broad selection of British and American poetry from 1200 through the publication date of 1981. Entries included brief biographies of the poets, adequate footnotes, and a thoroughly amazing note section in the end on prosody.

I read. I studied. I learned. And I experimented. Obviously, there were sonnets. Not just Shakespearean sonnets but Spenserian sonnets and Petrarchan sonnets. Villanelles, couplets, meter, long and short feet, Tanka, Haiku, Modernism, Post-modernism — you name it. I was trying to fill an emotional void with the capacity to express myself, my depression, my feelings of loss and of being lost.

My peak for writing poetry was between 1990 and 1994. I was living in Boston and completely surrounded with the widest variety of artistic types. It was a veritable cornucopia of people and ideals and thoughts and temperaments. I navigated toward like-minded souls and read and talked and wrote and critiqued and edited. My day job was a means of paying rent, buying a few groceries, and being able to afford paper and typewriter ribbon.

Naturally, my earliest efforts were derivative. You read Shakespeare, you write a sonnet. Read Eliot and become esoteric and obscure. However, I came across a piece by Robinson Jeffers entitled “Nova” and was taken by its sense of acceptance of the mortality of the world. I was barely 30 but highly impressed by the content. Today, at 60, it is even more meaningful.

My homage was entitled “Strength.” Whereas it does not approach the greatness of the Jeffers piece, I am proud of it and its own statement. I feel it stands up 30 years later.

STRENGTH

The girth of Goliath was his strength.

A brute beast, six cubits and a span, a champion

          of his people; not actually willing

          to give his life for a cause so much as

          believing there was no chance to die.

But one sling, one stone, one great faith,

          and there was thunder as the great body

          came crashing down.

I used to believe that knowledge and wisdom were strength,

          was bred to believe that, instilled by

          the volumes of books even in the nursery.

          And to that end I studied immaculately.

Yet whatever knowledge and wisdom I may now possess

          is used for this day, one day only,

          this time, the only time I know of.

For I am told of the Great Uncertainty of things,

          explained by scientists in elaborate detail

          of the impermanence even of the sun.

The great explosion that brought all this into being

           may come around again to end it finally;

           by ourselves or by the eventuality of Nature,

           the impenetrable fuse will be lit.

At that time, the seas and oceans will dry up completely,

           the forests turn to deserts, the cities rust

           and erode until they are dust once again.

Long before then, however, the arrogant creature that we

           have become will fade like a passing thought,

           simply slip away into the void, never realizing

           that the ending was beginning.

And the towers and monuments and words that we have created

           will be a Nothing that No One will remember.

This is the only real knowledge that I have gained.

And it is my strength.