I can't recall how a particularly good insight has escaped me. I remember writing it down somewhere, but having exhausted all my best efforts, I am inclined to believe that it is lost. so I will do my best to rewrite it somewhat here, at least in short: poetry ought to open up meaning and not reduce it. much of my last rumination was based on the conflict between science and poetry, mainly it was an exploration of the utility of poetry. I find that poetry is not much of a systematized capitalistic process because it disrupts patterns and markets and meanings. I suppose poetry could be used as a sort of brand hit-man type work. or maybe I am identifying all poetry with my certain idea, that poetry ought to open up meaning. for example, a poem that addresses love will not identify love as a single definition. nor will a good poem foreclose on other meanings. rather a good poem will take an idea and open it up to multiple meanings, and avoid being corralled into a specific meaning. I think John Donne's "Batter my Heart Three-Personed God" is a good example of this. Donne has introduced a new way to look at God. I suppose that this works (it's a great poem), but I think that the poem is de-constructionist in that it tears down an old view of God and sets up a new one. But the absence of the old view still exists historically. here's what I'm suggesting: what would happen if you tore down and rebuilt an idea many times, ad infinitum? what would happen to that idea. let's say we tore down and rebuilt the idea of a river.
a river walks like the back of my hand runs down my other hands popping veins,
and I feel like the way that I am walking down a frozen river feels like the way I walk down my stairs.
I felt this kind of ambiguity before: am I a partridge or a pigeon rushing towards my death-window, am I
the one thing that can't be felt but can only be known, am I inside my own head, is my hand really much more a part of my
consciousness that my desk and my books, am I really walking down a river or am I feeling the river walk down me?
I don't want to believe in a heliocentric world. I'd rather look at this world and say it revolves around my son and his legos, that his moon
is my wife, and that I am a comet that occasionally eclipses the moon, sometimes I crash, most of the time I burn. I like to think like this
because there are so many more planets, so many more stars, so many more moons in my life and his, the river in our backyard becomes a milky way
a sort of small animal that doesn't want to live too close to the center of the universe.
that wasn't very successful, I'll admit. I didn't tear down and rebuild the idea of a river. let me try it again:
the river is black
the river is running
the river is cold and swimming down the land
the river is the veins of the mountain
the river is the mountain
the mountain is running and black and cold and swimming down itself
the mountain is long and it runs towards the lake
the mountain is the lake
the lake stands carefully in the belly of the deer
the deer is the lake and the lake is the mountain and the mountain is the river and the river is black and running and cold and swimming in the deer's belly, which is sloshing in the belly of the deer in the lake in the mountain and all I can see is myself capturing this on a film which I call a river that I take home and douse in lots of rivers and make it into another river that I hang on the river of my river and stare at the river with my river on the river without our little river who died in a river and I miss my little river so much, why did he have to die, why did my river die at such a young age, oh river, please give me my river back, I've lost my will to river on river river little river.
I do like the result. I feel like the meaning becomes something larger but also something smaller (?). I suppose what I am most interested in is that the idea of a river can't be transported to the other things so easily. what I mean to say is that the end of the story (yes the poem develops a narrative, and I'm not sure how successful it becomes at conveying that narrative (of a mother and father crying on their couch about the death of their son).
a random thought while I was writing the above observation: (most of the time I am scared of text because I do not known what body I will be standing in until I start standing in it. a picture feels safer to me because I can quickly assess the object and just was quickly reject it all in a flash, but the text is manipulative because it will give nothing until you are invested in it. just as the frog is boiled slowly, a text is similarly seductive).