[Jeffrey]

do come along; do let us go

Kadamitas mutat madide demum meas bis litteras
O kors! O tempora! O mors, kum inevitabilis
adveneris, me vexas. O atrox! dulcis est laus.
..........- Dissolutus 5

Across the rolling miles comes this cold thought
that the era of exile is long gone.
There is nowhere a man can be detached,
and even if the forest takes his life,
the state will inter his ashes.

Beyond the confines of this cold carriage
a system slides along on rusted gears,
no rattle coming to signal a stop
and a long line waiting outside the door
to take your place if you falter.

Under the currents of telemetries,
competing informations vie for space.
There is no word that remains unspoken,
and even if your name surfaces once,
the din renders it a bass note.

Inside the microcosm of my skull,
fair celebrated faces take the place
where no one else was meant to be featured
but some king or kindred, the remote "I"
telling you the story has an arc.

Outside the kingdom, it is dark and hot,
Humidity coaxes out: blood, sweat, tears.
No matter. The lion gates have been locked,
and Heaven has not opened a window.
The din coming from within is cruel.

[guitarczar]

First off, I like your title. The polite dual entreating, the symmetry of syllables. It seems to suggest something more airy or light-hearted then the subject matter presented afterward. Perhaps even gentle and tender-hearted, like a endearing uncle taking his niece on a playful jaunt. Then again, it could be said out of determined resignation, even-keeled but tinged by the conclusion that whatever one comes to will never be fully satisfying.

That out of the way, there is a little confusion with where you want to take the imagery in the poem. Unfortunately I am unsure what the opening phrase means and there I might be at a disadvantage. Proceeding at my own peril, on to the first stanza. In my opinion you sufficiently convey the prison mans finds himself inside--he is stuck with the problem of his existence (or whatever the problem is), and at any rate he isn't finding himself able to slip away. I take the second stanza to represent his relative insignificance as well. Not only is he screwed, but no one cares and if he doesn't play along with what he considers an absurd turn of events, he will be replaced (which maybe is the better option). The third stanza reminds me of "A Passage to India," though I don't imagine the allusion was particularly meant on your part. Anyway, I mean the part in the caves where any sound uttered is returned as the same single syllable--everything of meaning and variation reduced to the same pointless(?) sound. I'm not sure why "fair celebrated faces" take over the place designated for you yourself, unless you mean that your influences overwhelm your unique identity and you express only what others have prepared for you to say.

It's the last stanza that throws me for a loop. I recognize the technique as something you employ regularly, and I have used it as well. It seems to be a sudden removal from the previous environment and action, a slowed-down replay or encapsulation of what has been said from a bird's-eye view. You suggests a couple things, one of which is startling. Heaven is referred to as having a din, a cruel din at that, but this fact immediately connects it to the place of despair that the subject has described from the outset. Thus the even more unsettling implication that Heaven is that place of despair. Or perhaps you tie Heaven to the ruling king or kindred of your consciousness, and choose to an idyllic title to ironically contrast the utter moribundity of your situation.

Well, I may be close or I may be way off. That's part of the fun of playing the Sophist. On another note, as I mentioned in my email, I am beginning to experience again the urge to write poems. I wanted to put an interrogative to you, though I don't know if you experience this much: how do you fare psychologically between your bouts of writing? I don't mean to suggest poetry is the most important thing in life, but I know it sometimes presents itself as such to the writer, whether he wishes it or not. I guess I have to say for myself that I am sometimes disappointed with what life offers as an alternative. I find the way that other people wish to frame the issues, especially Christians our age, to be reductive and confining, and it saddens me that as much as I push to make a difference, so will they, for the rest of their lives. In other news I've been reading Brothers Karamazov and I enjoy how Dostoevsky's characters interact with each other--in a way it makes up for the like-minded company that I've been missing in rural MN.

Ha, not that I am one to tout Midwest provincialism. I am unconvinced that cities are an indication of civilization's prosperity, the new Jerusalem notwithstanding. Well, enough of my usual nonsense. Off to bed.

[Jeffrey]

I had a big response, but Firefox ate it, and I am too tired to reconstruct it.

I will say that in all honesty you nailed the poem. What I had in paragraphs I will list in bullet points:

- the title comes from a Negro spiritual, and thus is meant both as a contrast to the harshness of the poem that follows and a gentle invitation

- this is an alienation song

- my influences indeed provide no respite, swallowing up my own thoughts

- I am Grendel perched outside Heorot. I move from Lewis' gray city to the gates of Heaven, and the strains there strike like daggers. Modern society alienates, and death has no respite. Like I said, bleak stuff.

- the possibly awkward first line is meant to contrast: a dawning, chilling realization comes slowly, but despite the insight gained it is insight about what is lost. It is a nod, perhaps, to Dylan's album title Slow Train Coming and Springsteen's tour mantra "This is a dark ride" from the shows in support of Tunnel of Love

As for psychoses, this poem was the last stand-alone I wrote before moving and tossing myself creatively in the Infonautica. It demanded to be written in its own way.

Poetry provides the proverbial outlet. I undertook the Infonautica partially because of the sheer pleasure I had the summer of '09 working on my own versions of various Greco-Roman and Near Eastern poems. Translating Ovid, rendering the Canaanite Baal epic, etc. were spiritual experiences. Craving that escape into a world of myth and complexity, I began my own work.

My recent poems on CGR came during breaks from the Infonautica. Poetry to me these days is a way to put my feelings into words, a documentation perhaps.

I am always writing, though most of it is crap of course. Psychologically I am a mess, and poetry seems to be a way to both retreat into and a construct a world that forces me to be frank to myself about such things.

Poetry can be a self-inflicted ink blot test, a groaning deeper than prose given flesh.

[guitarczar]

I read this earlier and meant to reply. Basically, my reply was that I read it. Not that there isn't anything to say--I mean, not that what you said has no profundity--but sometimes the best response is silence, I guess. Which is to say I hear ya and empathize without much to offer in return.

But I did want to add, I've reworked the intro to my paper more or less, and I think I've incorporated your views on literary theory: I'm basically going to present the whole spectrum briefly (as Wikipedia perceives the spectrum) and then go from there.