Six monarch butterfly cocoons
clinging to the back of your throat—
you could feel their gold wings trembling.
You were alarmed. You felt infested.
In the downstairs bathroom of the family home,
gagging to spit them out—
and a voice saying Don’t, don’t—
--Dana Levin
I have not written would reach
from here to the California coast
if you laid them end to end.
the poems I have not written
would sway like a silent
Tower of Babel, saying nothing
different tongues. So moving, so
filled with and emptied of suffering,
so steeped in the music of a voice
the poems I have not written
would break the hearts of every
woman who’s ever left me,
with a sharp contempt and hate
themselves for turning their backs
on the very source of beauty.
would compel all other poets
to ask of God: "Why do you
let me live? I am worthless.
destroy my works and cleanse
the earth of all my ghastly
imperfections." Trees would
I have not written. "Take me,"
they would say, "and turn me
into your pages so that I
from which your words arise."
The wind itself, about which
I might have written so eloquently,
rivers of air, its stately calms
and furious interrogations,
its flutelike lingerings and passionate
to sweep down and then pass over
the poems I have not written,
and the life I have not lived, the life
which they so perfectly describe.
--John Brehm
Which, in turn, made me think of this:
Reading the poems and listening to the CD, in turn, made me think of this poem (though I didn't quite remember the expletives), which is also a type of ars poetica:
I like my own poems
best.
I quote from them
from time to time
saying, "A poet once said,"
and then follow up
with a line or two
from one of my own poems
appropriate to the event.
How those lines sing!
All that wisdom and beauty!
Why it tickles my ass
off its spine.
"Why those lines are mine!"
I say
and Jesus, what a bang
I get out of it.
I like the ideas in them,
my poems,
ideas that hit home.
They speak to me.
I mean, I understand
what the hell
the damn poet's
talking about.
"Why I've been there,
the same thing," I shout,
and Christ! What a shot it is,
a shot.
And hey,
The words!
Whew!
I can hardly stand it.
Words sure do not fail
this guy, I say.
From some world
only he knows
he bangs the bong,
but I can feel it
in the wood,
in the wood of the word,
rising to its form
in the world.
"Now, you gotta be good
to do that!" I say
and damn! It just shakes
my heart,
you know?
--Jack Grapes
i am accused of tending to the past
i am accused of tending to the past
on her own, beware, she will.
--Lucille Clifton
So, what is an ars poetica? Well, Horace would have his say, but I'm still not sure how to define it in concrete terms. Generally, though, I believe when the term is used in contemporary poetry it simply means a poem about poetry or why one is or has been drawn to writing poetry, though I think it can be applied to other art forms as well. Since, in many ways, I deem the ars poetica a defining and connecting piece, this, in turn, leads me to believe that I am still writing/finding/mining mine...