Monday, May 01, 2006
A Poem for a Poet
Mark Doty is one of the most distinguished writers of our time, in both poetry and prose. I have long admired his work--he crafts exquisite creations in both genres. His skill with language is stunning, and I have learned much from reading his books.
Mark is not a mystic. However, in his memoir called "Heaven's Coast" (which recounts in beautiful language his role as caretaker to his partner dying of AIDS) he describes a mystical opening he experienced during an acupuncture treatment. All the world became pure dazzling energy, the source and content of all that is. For whatever reason, he rejected the offered path and chose to continue in a more "normal" state of consciousness, the artist who sees and renders all facets of human experience. I love the man and his work, but am puzzled and somewhat disappointed by his choice. (Yet, I know others who have had similar experiences.)
Here is a poem I wrote recently. It contains two "fictional presences." One is the narrator, who resembles me, but yet is not entirely me--that is, what the speaker says and what I feel are not necessarily identical. Yet these are the words which came forth when I wrote the poem. The other "fiction" is the subject being described--this appraisal is not necessarily accurate. The poem thus is what "someone" might say about the author, summing up his gifts and his limitations.
I encourage you to read Mark Doty and decide for yourself.
The Master Poet
(Mark Doty)
This man has learned
to hedge his bets,
not to go too far,
stumble into those
fog ridden realms
where the mystics
and crackpots dwell.
His language is eloquent,
but he risks
only what is verifiable--
the scents and smells
of a summer day,
the perceivable connections
of events and their origins,
pleasurable (I never thought
of it that way, we marvel) insights
into the hidden world
of a threaded reality,
yet all safe,
well within the comfort zone
of our belief.
No one can accuse him
of being a new Whitman
or Kerouac
hysterical with language,
flinging words onto the page
like some verbal Jackson Pollock
splattering to birth
a new creation.
His laser eyes
scan a provable landscape,
familiar yet opening
to unexpected vistas,
unguessed shadows.
His exquisite script
claims the world
as form,
thing seen anew,
something we
are eager to hold close again.
Dorothy Walters
Carmel by the Sea
April 29, 2006
Mark is not a mystic. However, in his memoir called "Heaven's Coast" (which recounts in beautiful language his role as caretaker to his partner dying of AIDS) he describes a mystical opening he experienced during an acupuncture treatment. All the world became pure dazzling energy, the source and content of all that is. For whatever reason, he rejected the offered path and chose to continue in a more "normal" state of consciousness, the artist who sees and renders all facets of human experience. I love the man and his work, but am puzzled and somewhat disappointed by his choice. (Yet, I know others who have had similar experiences.)
Here is a poem I wrote recently. It contains two "fictional presences." One is the narrator, who resembles me, but yet is not entirely me--that is, what the speaker says and what I feel are not necessarily identical. Yet these are the words which came forth when I wrote the poem. The other "fiction" is the subject being described--this appraisal is not necessarily accurate. The poem thus is what "someone" might say about the author, summing up his gifts and his limitations.
I encourage you to read Mark Doty and decide for yourself.
The Master Poet
(Mark Doty)
This man has learned
to hedge his bets,
not to go too far,
stumble into those
fog ridden realms
where the mystics
and crackpots dwell.
His language is eloquent,
but he risks
only what is verifiable--
the scents and smells
of a summer day,
the perceivable connections
of events and their origins,
pleasurable (I never thought
of it that way, we marvel) insights
into the hidden world
of a threaded reality,
yet all safe,
well within the comfort zone
of our belief.
No one can accuse him
of being a new Whitman
or Kerouac
hysterical with language,
flinging words onto the page
like some verbal Jackson Pollock
splattering to birth
a new creation.
His laser eyes
scan a provable landscape,
familiar yet opening
to unexpected vistas,
unguessed shadows.
His exquisite script
claims the world
as form,
thing seen anew,
something we
are eager to hold close again.
Dorothy Walters
Carmel by the Sea
April 29, 2006
