Singing in the Fire
Pick up on my site has calmed down again. Little landslide got me to finishing another poem. Called Singing in the Fire.
Cat rubbing across page between Lowell and Yeats precious absorbed in “the cleaning process.”
Yeats because lines are sometimes completement laced through imagery, aka extended usage of metaphor(ical) all the way through it. And Lowell because the skunk is still feeding her kittens…
The poems and the novel are having a conversation as working to finish books. Because a lot of terms use in novel come out of poetry???
Well, yeah it’s all intertwined. There’s serious-o free writing going on, in narrative on my site, that I dont do here — well, except a little at the beginning.
Some of the free writing is prelim for novel liquidating with language? Yes but chop chop too.
Fighting off cross cuts, for instance Burroughs pretending he is Joyce, and the guts of it cuts pretty tight sometimes. So tight it’s a chopping block. Acker whispering to me go go go and get it.
Blake though, in the background is argying? strenuously, hidden from site, its in background, just to me, saying no dont you forget beauty is your survival?? Which eventually novel grows to take in…
Love is everywhere roasting on the fire. Fire is everywhere in the language. Before fire it was something else. DYna used to pick up on it for me. And I’d go searching it down.
Site is earlier writings… bit more — close circuit because it was for an audience I went after specifically. And nobody else, at that time.
Tips at Top
Had to find employment in the writing for the novel. What like money. Yes? No! Method. Creating ritual. So much you look forward to it. I find method just by bumping into while listening.
Method in writing is only about money if you're a writer for or as somebody else. I don know, I have never been for writing. I dont seem to know how. Get nervous and go all Pessoa on it, his letters however formal, are also a bit off, with the loonies.
I found adorable… Found Pessoa bio, lovely book, bookstore in London, couldn’t afford. So I decided to skip food and buy it. Lovely book… Was on a Pessoa kick up my slant fully invested, if you know what I mean.
But then I stopped to get coffee and toast. And started bragging about the book to the waiter. And showing to him almost whispering as I ran my hand over it. And put an ear on it.
Well, fuck if it wasn’t a Portuguese restaurant. And the restaurant bought me breakfast except I had to pay for the orange juice.
Poetry initially seemed completely controlled by upsurges of language, finding Time a kind of tyranny, really stuck in time with time itself, as language slinks out along with its cage.
At first all I could do is try and find something in the language, or scream. Language came into being for me through songs and screaming…
Slays with Yeats finding a beam…
Where intimacy in it dwells untarnished and true, no matter what people do, also refer to, jokingly, as - turning into a fish.
Todays poem, Singing in the Fire is a fish turning in tire bungy jumping, off the raising of hellfire. It aint pretty, there is little beauty in it. Its ruthless even in its savagery?
Novel searches beauty down… thank god.
Not the poetry tho. Poetry is rearguard, like Sylvia, engaged with terror.
Poster Children
I have things I use again and again in different ways. Started thinking of as poster children. Whenever showed up. Began having sense of humor with the employment itself -
Tho poetry comes out of being stuck in the violence of its grace and raving even scathing, vampire logic calls blood bathing…
I think I went through a Boschy? monster bout, yeah discussed in dead letter box the monster thing with Dyna -
Yup hit the vampires, the frank monster, not to forget Jesus carrying his stake, furies and faery goons, and of course — whore galore swimming across language like cleaning blood off a floor…
Irish mash with Beethoven and Blake and Rantin Rabby…. And DYna.
Consumed almost every other purpose in the writing.
Some of my poems land around Lowell… Tho, not as close to ground as Lowell.
Escalates up against language of the eternal, my “divine progress,” in that sense closer to Dante, more Boschy in its body of cartoon tho not as violent as say Burroughs.