I always vote in person and live in a neighborhood that is not that residential. more hotels than anything. And tons of theatres.
Working on poems. Sent out a few. My brooders. All poems working on now are part of my brooding over what comes up in the vomit. At my worst. Which is why I fell for Beckett. He talks about that a lot. Having to address that as a matter of course and curse…
But then — the poems turn into rhyme. They roll into rhyme. All of them! One way or another…
And rhyme becomes part of their vehicle. And as always it is a bit of a corpse. Of procrustes in its driving force. In that respect have a very vintage quality. The darkness is deep in and hurts, as poems are trying to crawl out of a ditch I found myself in. Cruelty, passion, lark…
And there being in it, a sorrow, anger and defiance, that in these poems, has no way of getting out. I dont regret reaching out to do that. Because it was worth it, got what I needed, if not what I wanted, and it worked. And now the narrative is going somewhere else, also. While builds on everything I have done before. I dont think thats a bad thing.
There is a part thats always been infused by the incendiary, that it is at its base, a sacred gesture, that poetry is, and embellishes the wound to free it from its womb. And fill its tomb with treasure. I think Blake would understand that.
I cant get away from poetic baselines when doing verse. It seems, no matter the harshness poems may take on, because what beauty there is in it — is submerged in fire. Worked on ten poems today, they are rough on me. And even sent out two.
Narrative has switches, narrative plays around with nonsense rhymes like joyce did in finnegans, comic relief from the cage he has you put into. Poems dont have room for that, rhymes intercede, are conspired in a furious need.
Cioran is getting even moodier! if that’s possible. Finished June 1962. First entry July.