Note on font

To anyone (Ecoecoeco....) who might happen upon this blog, and who may want to read what it contains, please note that the Old English font used for the last two entries, Reynolds & Midway parts 17 & 18, is mainly a bit of fun on my part, though also done with a purpose: to point to what seems to me an almost universal human tendency to mistranslate and misinterpret what others have said or written. As for things spoken, we have a thousand excuses for passing them on incorrectly; as for things written, what excuse do we have? None. We only need to pay more, and closer, attention. But knowing that very often we do not pay enough attention, and that this is one of our most common and most ungodly attributes, and having so much written material behind us, I find it amazing that anything like a single coherent sentence, let alone a single coherent doctrine or thesis, has been able to survive and be handed down to us, intact, from antiquity. My atheist spirit of only a few years ago would see that bafflement as a perfect excuse to ignore anything resembling authoritative, and yes, intimidating, wisdom from those times; but so much has happened to me of late, that my astonishment now arises from witnessing the determination with which so many millions of human beings are seeking to obliterate, or at least obviate, the superlative achievements of our distant ancestors, whose work is saturated with goodwill and well-wishes for us who in their time were hazy, vague abstractions: a people of the future, a new and improved version of humanity. I feel deep shame for having once, and often, been so ungrateful and so blind as to have thought it sophisticated, even necessary, to casually trifle with the Bible and other ancient and sacred texts from all over the world. Shame on me. I hope God will forgive me.

 

A few more words: what may appear as mockery, satire, or just me trying to be cute, in my recent poems, particularly in my ongoing sequence, Reynolds & Midway, is really me being as straightforward as possible. There are no hidden meanings or puzzles here, at least not deliberate ones. The audience I envision are well-read, adult lovers of poetry who know more than I do, not less, who will get whatever there is to 'get' and who will know the many allusions, imitations, and references in the work; or, short of that, will at least be interested enough to use a search engine or a good reference book in order to track them down. I do not intend to be an 'intellectual' poet, or a novel, avant garde, eccentric, wily, coy, secretive one. My intention is to be understood and hopefully appreciated by a handful (more would be wonderful, but I don't anticipate that happening) of fairly well-educated and interested readers of poetry: not people who go to readings or buy books of poems to appear fashionable, smart, or quirky, just people who sincerely cannot live without poetry in their lives, people who view poetry not as a hobby, or a prop, or simply a sounding box for neurotics, political activists, or sissies (male or female), but as a genuine and time-honored form of art which is still alive and well and will not be phased out any time soon.

 

If the last two entries are difficult to read (which they would have been for me only a year ago), an easy fix is to copy and paste them into a simple text document,  or to a file where the font as they are presented in on this blog will either not be carried over or be alterable to something else. I assure you (if any there be: this blog attracts only spam traffic thus far) once again, I am not trying to be clever, nor to cause confusion, nor to impress, nor to dither without purpose. The meaning of my poems, and their deeper meaning, is very simple. I should also mention that it could very well be that I'm a terrible poet, a hack, just mediocre, or balls-to-the-wall insane. I'm not the one to make that judgment. I write primarily for God and for myself. Any extra ears are gravy, but they would be most appreciated. I have a difficult time selling myself and my poems. Thirteen of my poems have been published in mid to fairly-reputable journals over the years: twelve in print, one online. I hardly ever submit.

The world is choked with poets, so I don't think there should be any hurry to get another one out on the stage. I'd most likely piss myself and run away in any case. What I really wish is that the poets of today would spend less time worrying about their own posterity and more time reading the works of our fathers and mothers. For every poet I never heard of until a week ago, or a day ago, there are hundreds, if not thousands, if not millions - given roughly three millennia and a big world full of smart, opinionated, passionate human beings - that I haven't heard of, and to whose work, be it bad or good, I may be ignorant forever.

 

Wee Willie Winkie, 11.20.13