At one time, I believed there could never be a thought, an observation, that I could not write down in words with even more clarity than which I received it. For me, however, there is an almost unreachable place of astounding profundity where insights are more than insights, but as of yet, I have found it impossible to express these insights with sufficient words. Those words are born from something of the soul and rise into perception without warning, coming at times following intense mental concentration, or at odd moments, perhaps days later, when at rest after physical and mental exhaustion, and at those inexplicable moments of time, when the constraints of waking thoughts seem to blend into dreams. So, I search for those moments and the inspiration to capture them in words; nothing has changed, this is the place from where I struggle to write.

The poetry I have written has come full circle; yet, it is better now, more articulate as I have learned to give more attention to the meaning of each word. My ideas of what poetry is, what it should be,  have gone from my own personal views, to what others say poetry should be, and now back again to what I sincerely know it should be. There were many challenges making this full circle, particularly thematic ones and the challenges of writing within the constraints of narrowly defined topics, but I feel as if something in me always found a way to rise above the confines of convention. To me, adhering to the constraints of popular notion makes words seem mechanical, yet in the end, inspiration took me beyond those limitations, and I seem to disregard it all. And for me, the major factor has always been time and opportunity: too many fires burning all at once and not enough time to put some of them out or keep others going.

I read what I have written now and realize that it is not meant everyone, but of course, it was never intended to be. I find the style and tone of contemporary poetry unappealing, particularly the dark themes and moods; for some reason, it leaves my soul revolting with a sense of blight; perhaps it is because I have seen my share of pain and grief enough to know that I need not more. I suppose dark themes and social statements are about what exists most in the world, or maybe for some, they are what most elicits a response, or perhaps it is easier to pass off a meter-less moral statement for a poem simply because it elicits a gut response. But for me, passion that is alive comes not from the gut, but from the heart of the soul; and like the spirit of a plant or animal can be sensed by something beyond the normal five, what comes from this higher place has flow and a feeling all its own that is alive in the nature of things. The ideas and the form found there complement one another and create a genesis of thought that is deserving to be put into words: I seek these things, the experience, and the ideas that are ready to unfold into words. Now I look at poetry and measure it against this standard that I know exists, for higher ideas are in the world and waiting for me.

The experience of life has taught me to see how shallow some poetry can be, including my own work, which often only touches the surface of higher intentions in a superficial way and fails to represent a deeper reality intellectually and emotionally. Did someone once say, “They found him in the gutter dead?” I think of that sometimes and wonder if the struggle to find the right words and put them together is what has led some to end up there. It is true, it is so difficult to find the right words and put them together, let alone find those that touch the soul. It’s as if the words exist in an endless sea of silent waves that wash over the shores of a place beyond the horizon. Does mediocrity and fear of failure keep us from finding them? Does it make us all cynics?  It seems post modernism and the fallaciousness of the social constructionists intentioned the death of my vision of what poetry is and should be; they took me from my way: I almost lost a beautiful vision, but now more than ever I am convinced that I was right all along. I think when fall comes, if I am told I have failed to pass the test, those who would say this might anger me, for a moment; but they would leave me as they found me: not worse from the journey, but more convinced than ever I am on the right path. So it is with the world, it does not touch me. There is something which I know is part of me, that can never be torn away by the herd in their stampede of compliant ignorance; it tells me that all those who lack vision really don’t mean much and fade away, and leave me not a scar but strength in determination. If I have learned nothing (but in truth, I have learned a great deal), it is true to say I have taken a step forward, a very real step.

Now it is after midnight, the time of shadows passing, and I am immersed in thought. It is how poetry should be, flowing in indefinable sensation, to which end the words melt into oblivion. But what I knew in the moments before is now gone. The sound of a Beethoven piano concerto is almost all that’s left of an inexpressible realization, the melody and memory of a feeling found in a poem that I once knew – words without that feeling are simply words: for without the indescribable sensation of what was set in motion so long ago, colors become pale, breath dissipates to still, and the dead are all that’s left to exist in the world… m. rockford wanamaker

To the Question of “Molded”

To the question of “molded” – molded as in the mold of man? – molded as in patterns of thought maintained by the social constructs of power? How can I answer this question… dreams are like that: patterns of the mind formed “in the house made of the evening twilight.” But Lo Kuan-chung asks, “when all’s a dream, who would first awake?” I shall answer with his words: “we are returning to the state without form––” because the light that the eyes see cannot be constrained in the matrix.

And so, in the end, it’s all about things created through imagination. Imagination begets creation – it is the power that Basho hints at with the words “stepping in the sea” – that’s the power given to those “still awake; to those given the power to see” – that’s the power of literature – and that’s a reflection that I cannot help but see.

East of Eden Blue

There is yet, in the dreams of night,
the secret fragrance, burning light
beyond the scent of flowers there,
floating in the misty air.

Perhaps it sleeps, as breathless do,
when day is night, when moon is new,
when colors become shades of gray,
whispers of thought blowing away.

What binds the life; what gives measure?
Is it waking dreams of pleasure?
Or waking from the dark abyss
finding the light of heaven’s bliss?

What comes back from the edge of dreams?
What flows within the wandring’ streams?
Counted visions without number
that come in night’s dreamy slumber?

Then comes dreams of before the fall
of ancient garden memries’ all,
walking hallowed upon that ground,
visions in blue of Eden found.

But cast a flow from dreamer’s well
darken the dreamer’s vision spell:
east of Eden, fall of descent,
for those who bath deep in torment.

Looking, seeing naught as they walk,
listning’, not hearing that they talk:
weeping deep blue in garden cast
east of Eden forever last.

But of darkness that fades away
with the morning sunrise of day,
dreams left behind memries’ for you:
thoughts and visions east of Eden blue.

Yet still, stars of nighttime give more
visions come from what was before:
the sun, the moon, orbs in the sky,
beginning dreams of you and I.

Walking in the presence of light,
Whispered words heard, eyes filled with sight,
Living the secret that’s found there:
sacred garden breath in His prayer.

They Know Who They Are

There’s a place of wasted dreams
where nightmares are real it seems:
each day filled with pain and sadness,
pushing me to further madness.

They blame me for the words they say
leaving me to die each hellish day.
They say, “Blame yourself for your pain;
you caused yourself to go insane.”

They say, “It’s all because of you,”
leaving me to ask if it’s true.
They say, “Love – you can’t separate
from war and rage and all our hate.”

They take my dreams and trade my life
for tortured days of pain and strife;
they take all my lament of hope
and round my neck they tie their rope.

A Song for Bob Dylan to Hammer On with his Guitar and Sing:

Rocky’s got a good gun
He’s lookin for his Nicky Fender
Cuz she’s so much fun

He’s got a big cigar
Hangin out his mouth
Cuz he’s a big rock star

He gonna play a little jam
Turn up Nicky loud
Hammer on her strings, hammer wham bam

Cuz every song Rocky play
Nicky cry and moan
When he play it that way

And all those folk dudes with their fucked up attitudes
Better run, better run cuz Rocky’s gotta hammer
And all those other dudes with their fucked up attitudes
Better run cuz Rocky hammer Nicky for the glamor

Now, Nicky loves to feel Rocky play
Loves him hammer down that way
And play her hard that way all day

But Rocky gotta good surprise
He’s gonna play a little slide
Makin Nicky squeal with moans and cries

Cuz Nicky’s waited such a long time
To feel the way that Rocky play
And make her cry and moan all day

And all those folk singin blues with fucked up attitudes
Better run, better run cuz Rocky’s gotta hammer
And all those kinda dudes with their fucked up attitudes
Better run cuz Rocky hammer Nicky for the glamor
Yes, he hammer for the glamor!

A Sonnet for Bob Dylan the Poet:

Everywhere he looked fate reflected back
Seemed destiny had found him in its plan
His future was bright, everything on track
The wheels were turning; smooth the motor ran

But fate pressed and the lights began to flash
Knew what was happening could not look down
Destiny was close; skies about to smash
Victory far upon the mountain’s crown

Once Icarus fell when he flew too high
But the farmer still ploughed and turned his field
And a child died when he fell from the sky
And he cried, but the farmer would not yield

Look how high he was flying, how high he flew
Look how high he went then, higher than he knew