[Jeffrey]

I read a very intriguing article in the latest issue of Poetry, a magazine that I should have been reading sooner (then again, I didn't care for much in it beyond the essay, so maybe not) about the future of poetry. I highly doubt I'll have much impact, but I find myself writing verse once again while lacking a focus.

To be honest, I don't find much recent poetry I enjoy, because most folks I know who are untrained tend to write very surface level, "my heart is broken/you twist a dagger" material, and everyone I know who has the training I unfortunately lack (workshops, etc.) tend to just ape someone else's style, usually the revered masters of Modernism, which was the point of the essay. I was in the middle of my first long-form/epic poem, about 5000 words into it, in fact, when I was convicted by the essay and decided to table that one and start a new one (I was going to use some of my first long-form in this new one, but the themes are too different).

The key for this new poem is to keep what I enjoy about my (often difficult) style, but with a positive stance. The essay talked about a need for poetry that addresses the new stance of modern sentiments, and I must admit the sentiments I see in other areas of modern artistic culture aren't reflected by-and-large by an academic world of poetry that tends to dwell on the bleak fringes of Modernism. This isn't to skewer or tear down pretensions on the academic side that may not exist. I have a great deal of respect for the academic landscape of modern American poetry, and feel they are doing a great job in terms of chronicling and discussion that other art mediums fail.

I write a good deal of celebratory work, but the epic poem I was writing was attempting to raise some heavy questions that made it feel a bit low in spirit. It was too autobiographical, and I was having trouble being comfortable with that.

I've tabled that to begin "Morning Comes to Dagger City," which will attempt to toe a cohesive theme while couching itself around a fictional love affair. I don't want to talk too much about specifics because I think that would be indulgent and lead you to find meaning where you should be free to invent your own. I will say that the majority of the poem is narrated by one character, anything indented and italicized is the other character. I'm being pretty particular about font and spacing, so the next few I post I may link to a page of my own. I have a rough finishing date of Christmas, since poetry is easier to find time for. I have a score of handwritten pages I haven't begun typing up, but I'm already 1200 into my typed rough draft.

I've been writing myself into a corner, so I may use this long-form piece to bury one style or approach (basically: write a lot of my urban/mythological angles out of my system). I will probably self-publish this in February once I get some formal critiques from some associates.

1.1

Night comes to Dagger City,
the light bebop of melting ice
tapping the corners of the glass
drained of gin: fuels my drive,
the internal combustion, thoughts
flicker and burst and burn and
I move, step by step, an engine
of veins and marrow, I take to
the streets

Night returns to Dagger City,
I hear cat-calls, alleyway dialogues
in several native tongues. The stars
flare pentecostal overhead, they are
to me still young, their sunrises dot
our canopy like whispers across a
crowded room, but Teccitztecal/Selene
dominates the conversation, hanging low
and holding my attention.

I slip on my spotless mask,
wipe the day’s grime off my
goggles so twin windows to my
soul can scatter candlelight set
on the windowsill for strangers to
see, hobbling their way down
Euclid Avenue.

I slip into something sleek
and discreet, black as the pit
from pole to pole, and just a few
shades darker than the skin I’m
wearing for the evening, the whites
of my eyes the glint of wharf lamppost
or Basil Elton’s lighthouse shining
across a moonless night ocean, so
calm and deep, but folks feline disdain the
water, so we merely watch and sometimes
we wet our claws.

I hum a prayer to a certain altar
at the Areopagus, flip through the
dining segment of yellowed pages
and dial up old friends who owe me
ancient favors that I intend to collect
in the form of last-minute reservations,
I keep so many.

The phone rings.

[jengoesup]

Interesting The phone rings...sort of ominous, in a way.

[Jeffrey]

The PDF didn't come out quite right, but that's okay because this is just rough sections of the first three parts. Thoughts are welcome. It's still in the larval stage.

[poorprince87]

Answer it.

I tried to PM you, but your inbox runneth over. Where can I buy some of your stuff, if I had the money for it?

daniel

[Jeffrey]

Thanks for the kind words. As of now, you can't. A little over a year ago I sold a poem to a collection of poetry inspired by the literary character Nyarlathotep (who figures largely in some stories by early twentieth-century writer H.P. Lovecraft), but no one's heard from that poetry editor since (it's the fairly well-respected small press writer Lee Clark Zumpe). I had a sort of creative existential crisis and dropped the idea of submitting poems.

When "Morning Comes to Dagger City" is finished, I will most likely make it for sale. I'm formatting everything as if it were going to be printed in a 6 inch by 9 inch size in which Lulu.com sells print-on-demand books.

I don't like the idea of self-publishing my fiction, since I think fiction should be accessible and should sell itself, but a collection like this for an "epic poem" wouldn't bother me.