Musicophilia

Musicophilia
Picture taken from the wall of The Mind Museum at BGC. The blog name "Poetophilia" was inspired by Oliver Sacks' book Musicophilia.

Sunday, February 09, 2014

E. 1

grab the sheets to hide;
I hear a lover's heartbeat.
          Hands removing covers like unwrapping
          Presents on a white winter morning.

After Dennis Haskell

Original:

At times I wonder what it is that really

Makes a poet; they say that he who owns

The most experience is wise. And wisdom, an

Attribute of age, comes with a great price I believe,

And so does Haskell. It changes you to think that life

Reveals ephemeral. I cherish reading every

Verse in the sweetest satisfaction that he believes

In the immortality of a poet in writing, ironically

Because finite human beings are objectified in a

Strange yet very meaningful way. A child can make so

Much sense of the mundane. A poet captures,

Or attempts to capture, a kind of experience:

Picasso spent most of his adult life trying to see

Through the eyes of a child, says he.

With experience and all that I may write with

I may never see my life in order

The way I think I should, accurately;

And to touch a thesaurus is sacrilegious. 


Revision 1:

At times I wonder what it is that really
Makes a writer; they say that he who owns
The most experience is wise. And wisdom,
An attribute of age, comes with experience, I believe,
And so does Haskell. Experience changes you to think
That life reveals ephemeral.

I cherish reading lines of poetry because I believe
In the immortality of a poet in writing, ironically
Because finite human beings live and die instead.
A child can make so much sense of the mundane.
A poet captures, or attempts to capture, a kind of
Experience:

Picasso spent most of his adult life trying to see
Through the eyes of a child.
With experience and all that I may ever learn to write with,
I would love to see my life in proper order
The way I think I should, consistently;
And to touch a thesaurus is heretic.

Incomplete and Nagged At (title taken from Dennis Haskell)

Original:

The worst thing [about] being alone under
A tree of stars is… no I’m sorry I cannot twist
My tale by telling you how I did not revel at the loneliness
Of my being alone; and you were—always, actually—probably
With company. When I looked up I remembered
The stones down your hair, I remembered they shone
Quietly enough for one I. Then you told me that if
You placed those stones on a plate they would
Be spilling over with light,
Because of their luster, but you’ve said only
So much about it. Your friends wouldn’t have known
What to say better—you tell me
Not to judge or speak harshly about people, but I would
Neither—either. I know that I’ve known of a kind of
Beauty to myself when I saw, tonight, the same, the sight,
A tree of stars, alone. And the worst thing about being,
The worst thing about being alone
Under a tree of stars is that I may often have to view it
Alone and just quietly enough for one I.

Revision 1:

The worst thing about being alone under
A tree of stars is... wait, let me first tell you
That I reveled at the loneliness of my being alone;
You were--always, actually--probably
With company, and they're always with you.
When I looked up I remembered our youth
And the stones down your hair,
And I remembered that they shone
Quietly enough for one I.
Then you told me that if you placed those stones
On a plate they would be spilling over with light,
Because of their luster,
But you've said only so much about it.
Your friends wouldn't have known
What better to say--you tell me not to judge
Or speak harshly about people, but I would
Neither--either. I know that I've known of
A kind of beauty to myself when I saw,
Tonight, the same, the sight of
A tree of stars, alone.
And the worst thing about being,
And the worst thing about being alone
Under a tree of stars is that
I may often have to view it alone
And just quietly enough for one I.


Note: I do not believe in this poem anymore.