Tag Archives: destinations

Between Something Worth Saying and a Voice to Say It With

One of the biggest personal challenges I face as a poet is striking a balance between form and function, or between pose and purpose.

What I mean by this is that as an artist progresses in their technical ability, in their experience with the creative process, and in the journey of self-discovery that ultimately results in maturity (or vintage) as an artist, we often say they have found “their voice”. To experience someone who has found their voice is to listen to the sound of a tree, to know that what sound comes from them originates from unseen roots in the soles of their feet and radiates upward and outward. Such voices rumble with a kind of authority that masterfully, yet without effort, blends the personal and the universal into a single stream of consciousness that, even if you don’t agree with the flow, you cannot help but be affected by when you hear it. Some artists never quite achieve that level of sophistication (although sophistication is not exactly the right word here), and you can sense it. They put on a great show, and to most observers they appear to be something quite special. But to other poets, I think, the distinction between a Voice and a Stage Whisper is apparent. A lot of people sham at having a Voice. They speak as if they had one, or as if trying to convince others they are someplace at which they have not yet arrived.

The problem is, of course, that the destination changes. And like any relationship, the voice and the words it finds to speak are often troubled by the little things. The two questions, “where am I going?” and “who am I going with?” always seem to be asked in the wrong order. As a result, the line between message and medium is often blurred, or lost altogether. I don’t think, for example, that Sylvia Plath’s intention was to inspire legions of pale, depressed, overwrought and hyper-sensitive ingenues who dwelt forever in the house of sadness and tragedy. Or that TS Eliot really wished for everyone who followed in his footsteps to mimic his worst traits (overbearing and perhaps a bit poncy and academic) and somehow forget his playful side. But that’s the way it goes, particularly when those who TEACH poetry approach it from an academic standpoint and by necessity must focus on only a small part of an entire persona in order to come up with a punchline for their Doctoral theses.

More to come later.

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Where Am I Bound?: Hymnal Verse

Where am I bound, my feet underneath me
touching the earth just one step at a time?
When I have found my purpose for living
will it be worth what I left far behind?

What is the sound of an unanwered question
reaching the silence in faraway ears?
When I have heard it will it be an echo?
Will I have wasted my listening years?

Who are the teachers ready with lessons,
waiting for pupils yet to arrive?
When I first meet them will I be ready
to learn to study how to survive?

How will I know what is the right answer?
Even the questions seem beyond me now.
When each voice carries and echoes just darkness,
can truth be heard in this world, anyhow?

Why am I wandering the path set before me,
each step in shadow, front and behind?
When I arrive at my true destination
what is the welcome I’m hoping to find?

Where I am going is some place, and nowhere;
maps are illusions, roads are their dreams.
When I stop reaching for definite answers,
everything becomes much more than it seems.

Where I am bound there’s no expectation;
only the journey will be my reward.
When I stop moving, this walk will be over —
then all these questions will plague me no more.

18 JAN 2005

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A Single Word

If I could in one word describe my road,
without digression through its tangent routes
or cataloging each and every node
that might be seen were I to map it out,

a single thing that clearly would detail
both how the trail and I got to this place,
despite the odds predicting I would fail
or in the search for truth, fall on my face,

then naming it would be of little use.
For if in a small segment of a line
the infinite whole world can be contained,

we may as well collect words as refuse
and think our days in study, wasted time,
a sentence where just empty space remains.

24 JUN 2004

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Advice for the Road: an ae freislighe

The path that we’re traveling
has today only begun.
So don’t start unraveling,
don’t think the whole race is run.

To enjoy the adventure,
we’ll take time with what we see,
cast away old indentures
and seek past what seems to be.

Though each step seems surrender
to some distant unknown goal,
for our souls we’ll find provender
by acknowledging the whole.

There’s no end, no conclusion
to this journey that we make;
cast off that sad illusion
and each mile is no mistake.

So think not destinations
but of time to live and laugh.
Let dreams come to gestation
while we’re traveling the path.

31 MAR 2004

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Coming Down

Winding down the dreary days that led me to this place
Powers of suggestion leaving echoes on my face
Lost in the sound of howling engines revved up for the race
Standing on some lonesome corner trying to plead my case

So many circles of color and sound
Between the sky and this place on the ground
So little time to spend looking around
Catching the moments I’ve found
Coming down

Tripping through the troubled times that make up this charade
Hours of reflection spent on mirrors now unmade
Lost in the flash of fickle freedom hidden in the shade
Standing on some lonesome corner watching the parade

So many circles that echo with sound
Trying to fly with my feet on the ground
On the horizon and looking around
Catching the insights I’ve found
Coming down

Stumbling over silent stones that lay there on my path
Symbols of some separation between what has passed
Lost in time’s tumult and triumph, things not built to last
Standing on some lonesome corner I just have to laugh

So many circles resplendent with sound
Filling the space between me and the ground
So many moments spent looking around
For all the good things I’ve found
Coming down

16 SEP 2003

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Here is Where I Am

Could have been famous, so I’ve always said;
those Hollywood notions still mess with my head.
Should be free of them by now, I suppose –
just takes accepting the life that I chose.

Paths come together, and then they diverge.
Drought always leads to some great demiurge.
Crossed wires connecting one thing to the next,
building new circuits where no one suspects.

Could have made money, or more than I do;
but then I wouldn’t have what I’ve been through.
Could start all over, and trust all to chance,
despite Thoreau’s quip about new pairs of pants.

Paths run together, and then they part ways;
hard to judge where they lead there through the haze.
One trail seems easy, deceptively so;
each single step leads to what you don’t know.

Could have made much wiser use of my brain –
sounds like my mother’s recurring refrain.
Gone to Columbia, Juilliard, Yale;
available options, now beyond the pale.

Roads intersect, and they head off apart:
North and East intellect, South and West, heart.
Could have done better, but no, never mind;
here is where I am, and right here is fine.

10 SEP 2003

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Highway Blues

I hear the highway calling, but I will not catch a ride;
Where I’m bound and where roads lead never seem to coincide.
For interstates link places that are pretty much the same,
and each draw certain travelers, like moths drawn to a flame.

The maze of concrete that connects these places on a map
(A strange device that makes you think the world fits in your lap)
Can make your journey quicker, but that’s never been my quest;
For me, often the detour is the route I like the best.

Besides on those big four lane stretches cut across the land
It takes a certain frame of mind and quite a steady hand
To keep oneself alert while in a sedentary state;
And too, each traveler is required to keep a certain rate.

That doesn’t suit my motives, nor my wishing to explore
but gets me to and fro again, and really nothing more.
For me there is no timeline to discover where I’m bound,
And direct routes are typically not where it can be found.

I much prefer the rural route, where no dividing line
splits up the coming and the going – that path suits me fine.
If I must take the big roads, then I feel my fate is set;
Besides, often my turnoffs don’t have lighted exits yet.

The open road calls when you’re young, when you can travel light
And live on junk food, drive on fumes and stay up half the night.
But as you pass through town and city, each place starts to blend
into the next, and soon you long for that strange journey’s end.

I’ve crossed this country now four times, and each trip made it clear
That there’s no difference where you go, your past is in the mirror;
By truck or car or motorbike, weighed down or flying free,
It’s not the road that moves you on to where you want to be.

I’ve heard it said that all roads led to Rome – a source of pride;
But once arrived in that fair city, you must then decide:
Can one place be the final stop? Of this, I have some doubt;
For every avenue that comes in also leads back out.

24 AUG 2003

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