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Sunday, September 2, 2012

people who do not understand my poetry




An excerpt from Vera Pavlova's "Heaven is Not Verbose: A Notebook"  


  • To write in spite of everything, even when generally speaking there is nothing to spite.
  • To help a poem hatch, I went to get some groceries. Paid the cashier, got my change, came home with a finished poem and no groceries.
  • How do I feel about people who do not understand my poetry? I understand them.
  • Being well-known means knowing almost nothing as to who knows you and what they might know about you.
  • Suddenly you realize that only what you have put into poems can be considered lived through. That is how you become a poet. And at that point you begin, consciously or otherwise, living the kind of life that is fraught with poetry. That is how you cease being human. The former happens abruptly, the latter gradually, both irrevocably.



I've placed Pavlova's book on my shelf above (recommended reading).  Well, this is the type of poetry I crave lately.  

Perhaps I'm deficient in certain minerals, certain words, tones. I'm deficient in those shades of green that enter your bloodstream.  Last post I spoke about my forest cravings. I have needed the scent of the forest, to breathe in the mossy sighs, the damp of forest debris and mulch.  



All summer long we've waited for these sunflowers.  Some have bloomed, though I photographed these beforehand.  We planted them in pots, actually, three large clay pots.  Which is I suppose why they have a slightly gaunt look about them.  They constantly look to the east. The sunflowers in one of the pots against the house have grown to above 7 feet tall.  They are taller, even, than me. They have twined around one another, hugging the house and the railing, for support. They will use every advantage to reach toward the sun, quite unscrupulous. And yes, I understand them, too.

I understand them quite perfectly.






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