The art of poetry is a long and lonely road, it is best not to give your life to it, unless it is your life--and unavoidable (or so I feel). The soul of it is a hard taskmaster. You must be faithful to it, like a woman, or you will be cheated. You must first have her over for dinner, and make sure she doesn't think you have forgotten her; in such a case, make peace with her quick, she will haunt you with her launching of whatever comes to her mind.
She does call me quite frequently, in my sleep, waking hours, here and there, and everywhere:
"Don't let my calls disturb you," she says.
I really don't know how I get anything done--I am surprised when I find a spare moment for my own pleasure. She turns her expressions inside of me, upside down: slowly spins on her heels (with her young curves and slippers). And then she opens her wardrobe, and says:
"Let's go!" (I suppose it means shopping?)
You see, she is quite busy with me!
[Poetic Prose: #1100; 1/25/06]
Ode to the: Lurking Ripples
Here, ripples the wind
Did the song of hell pass?
The abyss-door was open
Something trampled in the
A shape, a shape--I see,--
Vivid as the veins in me;
Evil lurks (sublimity)!...
Note: The poem: "Ode to the: Lurking Ripples," is dedicated to (both): Clark A. Smith for opening the vaults of hell with poetry, and George Sterling, for decontaminating them; both whiz kid' in their own right. Each reading one another (the old and the new), and both providing great poetry, if not phenomenal. [#1099 1/25/06]