Being Born a Poet

CanDoJack.com (which will start including some poetry sometime soon)
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(092212 model of the poem)

CONSIDERATIONS AND PREPARATIONS

[the definition of the word
‘weird’ was given to me
by my favorite guru
Alan Watts. one’s weird
is one’s unique destiny,
akin to Joseph Campbell’s
“Follow your ‘bliss'”]

[the ‘stanza’ on runes and dunes and
hexes and codexes in
came somewhat in memory
of John Gardner’s novel
“Grendel – the story
from the monster’s
point of view
(I am speaking of
John Gardner the novelist
not the mass market spy
story writer)]

poking a little fun at Goethe’s ‘singularity’

The stanza on Deutsche author
Guenther Grass like temporality
as in his “morgen ist was gestern wird sein”

sliding into home is
poking a little fun at my own
“Sensational Game”

the ‘sapling’ semi rhyme is in honor
of Emily Dickinson and her penchant
for altering the rhyme wisely in
terminal stanza lines

FINALLY THE POEM

being born a poet
steeping in Jungian amniotic
umbilicaled to art arcaning
tinkering with occult technologies
wire tapping and weird mapping
word rapping and wind sapling
mores mooring cuntquistadoring
out of chronological order
hovering in the air
seeming to the simple
teaming ghosts mingling
untolled bells almost tingling
all a raven’s breath beyond
their sensory borders
listen
I was sucking my thumb
before I had one
licking and sticking
that digit
into the
wind of womb
raum of room
recording occidental anthropology
listening to whispers of
how it is in Copenhagen
how it is in token havens
of spoken word
sine waves on time ways
windblown from age to age
now
rolling with the thunder
of the storm
the shaper formed
in the ever normed
mead hall midnight
when in the
meager mind of the liege knight
just to entertain the king right
leaving the legal minded
to deduce to reduce his truth
razing it to
relief runes
belief dunes
hovering hexes
caught codexes
and forming laws about them
like
“Let none carve runes to cast a spell,
save first he learns to read them well”
while already the shaper is further away
and further still into the dactyl depths
daw dit dit diving for metaphors
trident fishing triangulating rhetoric
erupting through the surface of
a flat dark world into the minds
of men at bay
before the grendels of
grosser nights

listen
Voices drum my mother’s walls
a shay man say man shows the awed
an image spun from a few bruised
fused well used words
adverbally modified by
flickering flames
dispelling night enough to dream
until the dawn
of a jungled day

I hear the voice of Homer
No it’s Goethe reading Homer
auf Deutsche – ah I hear too
how he winks and thinks to me
not enough consonants in the Greek
Yeah, I know he cheats, all poets cheat,
he is really after the rhythm
the consonanten give him
lyric to lieder to
live lively in my unborn mind

“Er wist was ist
was im zukunft war
und was war schon
in vergangenheit”

or

“He knew the things that were
the things that were to be
and what had been before”

Ahhhhh, Homer

One day things changed
Reality stepped in
My throat was so dry
I could not quote
Longfellow long
There I was
getting a grip
as it were
on climate change
when suddenly I was
sliding into third
bounced on and off my
right derriere cheek and up
and instinctively
heading for home
to the cheers
of a huge crowd
At home plate I stopped
paused ever so
parenthetically
looked the catcher
straight in the eye
put my little foot on home
as if in ballerina points
looked up at the crowd
to acknowledge their applause
withstanding ovulation
and I said
with the anointing
of poetic saints
of all ages
hand me down heroes
of the warped woofed
and woven word
of the spoken spear
I said
with stentorian voice
with perfect onamatapoiea
considering it was my first
spoken word performance
“wannnnnnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhh”
–eop–