A power of poetry is its words that make thoughts that create action, thoughts move elements together with purpose and direction.

As my eyes skimmed through the Adagia a couple of lines captured my thoughts.  My eyes became more focused as I returned to the Adagia and searched one by one for further light and knowledge that seemed to resonate with my mind:

Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts it becomes and epidemic.

The earth is not a building but a body.
That part of the truth of the world that has its origin in the feelings.
As the reason destroys, the poet must create.
We live in the mind
Everything tends to become real; or everything moves in the direction of reality.
The word must be the thing it represents otherwise it is a symbol. It is a question of identity.

 I had to stop because at this point my mind is ringing and hardly managing the thoughts swimming around in my head.  I had to start writing notes in my book for fear of loss, loss of those ideas, which would surely make me sad.  My mind then returned to Ashley’s blog. How is it that loss seems to trump both past and present? Having lost an adopted brother, I never forget his dorky ways or his annoyingly great stealing of my cheese. Although it has been 15 years my thoughts of him are always a mix of tears and smiles.  Sometimes I wonder what his life would have been like and in the same thought how that would have changed me. 

But he has changed me and I am happy for his time with me and in his absence am happy that I know him; because as words are thoughts and thoughts create feelings, we live in the mind, where reason cannot destroy what our poet creates, and this infection moves us to our epidemic of happiness. “The word must be the thing it represents otherwise it is a symbol.” and so are we, “It is a question of identity.” Who do we want to be?

Does a poet write or do poets transcribe

Is it a poet that writes dialectic harmonium from his subconscious semi filter by the conscious to paint himself in words on a page unexpected to be seen?

Or is it a poet that takes an emotion a cause worthy of debating and discerning about creates a cypher which will allude some and strike dead others it may even set free.

 Free Creation

 Or

The use of words to capitulate the issue to make a statement that is subtle yet poignant.

How did Stevens become such an amazing poet? In the piece I am working on, Lions In Sweden, I marvel at the complexity and yet wonder if he knew he was going to be complex when he began to write.  Did he research the zoo or people he speaks of or did he know them and they came to mind as his soul poured out on the page.  As a romantic I want to believe the later. Yet, the unborn-genius in me wants to believe that through practice and study I could write as brilliantly.

`Lions In Sweeden

Lions in Sweeden (so far) in the fantasy of my reality is a converstation between an unkown and swenson.

The unknown
doesn't like what swenson says his phrases
owns souvenirs
doesn't want lions on his souvenirs
thinks lions are majestic
says the soul has parts
knows what men in sweeden will admit or know is true
souls hanker to have lions
souls stilll hanker to have sovereign images
souls dont want lions necisarrly but some sovereign image

Swenson
was a hunter of sovereigns
there is a soul
and sovereigns of the soul
finds fault with the lions
souvenirs are the soul?

 

Dufy's Lion- woodcuttings some from the Hagenbeck zoo souveniers

building thoughts of thoughts lucretia thinking i think

Are thoughts physical or come from the physical or because of the physical

 

Are feelings physical or do they come from the phyiscal or because of the physical

 

Is the body electric is it elecrodes that drive the heart are words our defibulator

Is the body windy is it air that drives us is it air that feeds our blood

Is the body odorerous is our body driven because of the smells that move us to attrack or dispell us

Is the body a chemical is our body a reaction to chemicals that moves us

that carries our minds to know to understand OR to know we dont know?

 

What invisable force makes a dead man walk on water and a poet wRight?

Desconhecido zorro del hueso de la uvas

H: Tag you’re it, Desconhecido.

D: No fair you run like a zorro.

H: I can’t help that you are deformed, Hueso.

 

D: I could catch you but the uvas are in the way

H: Yea and if you squish the grapes they will throw you in the volcán

D: There are peor things

 

H: Como lo que

D: Like being sent to work for the tirano

H: But then you get to see inside the casa de gran lujo

 

D: My dirt house is better than his prisión of a house

H: But don’t you wish you could see through the cortinilla

D: His house is my shutter it bloquear out the morning sun

 

H: But even the lluvia doesn’t fall around his house

D: Look at his walls blanco and plain what does his house say about him

H: That he is rico and power full

 

D: When his house is gone mine will be opulent, painted with the sol

H: Desconhecido, do you suppose our kids will ever know us

D: Hueso, I hope they will one day run these hills as we do and find our bones

 

And  in those bones I will cry out and they will rise up and they  will harvest these grapes for themselves

Wallrus Stevens, goo goo g'joob

Last Looks at the Lilacs
To what good, in the alleys of the lilacs,
O caliper, do you scratch your buttocks
And tell the divine ingenue, your companion,
That this bloom is the bloom of soap
And this fragrance the fragrance of vegetal?
Do you suppose that she cares a tick,
In this hymeneal air, what it is
That marries her innocence thus,
So that her nakedness is near,
Or that she will pause at scurrilous words?
Poor buffo! Look at the lavender
And look your last and look steadily,
And say how it comes that you see
Nothing but trash and that you no longer feel
Her body quivering in the Floréal
Toward the cool night and its fantastic star,
Prime paramour and belted paragon,
Well-booted, rugged, arrogantly male,
Patron and imager of the gold Don John,
Who will embrace her before summer comes

The Unpacking

Why do you look upon the beauty of the newly blossomed women?

Oh accountant uptight and foul

Smooth talking man bound beautiful young virgin

Who woos this beauty, whispers words of comfort and commitment

She knows him, his reputation for stealing virgin-hopes

Still he professes again, he is clean

He defines his love, that grows only in beauty not libidinous

Yet she will forsake herself for hope

Spring at hand, love falling round about her envious

She can believe he loves her most

She too has a yearning to be smelled

She will not pause for rumors

Poor fools! she for her naivety and he for his lust-spoiling

He takes his last looks at his prize not yet soiled

Blinded to the mulch he will create 

Her ecstasy fulfilled in matrimonial union

One night of beautiful ecstasy for her one night with a fragile flower for him

Continuously horny, harsh, tenably unreachable man

The patron has bought and sold her as the vileness Don John

Alone she will wilt without loves moisture, unwant wilted flower