I
College professors love to talk
About how poems work, juggling
lines from old poems like balloons
filled with colors, but surely
A theory about how poems work
Should itself be a poem.
II
John Logan said one night, as a few of us
Trailed after him from bar to bar
In San Francisco, like Aristotle’s students
Wheeling about like a flock of ducklings
As he walked back and forth in his garden,
Thinking out loud—John said that
Poetry happens when we don’t know what
We’re going to write until after we’ve written it.
III
A poem is not just
Prose broken into short lines
unless they jostle like puppies
Struggling reach the tit
Or sperm competing to be first
to penetrate the veil around the egg,
Knowing from their genes
They must catalyze the Big Bang
That begins all life—or die.
A poem is not just
Feelings anyone could feel
Unless they explode with knowing
How her aura feels when rubbed by mine
Or how the sensuous grace of the spirit
Justifies my faith that all is worth persisting.
A poem is not just
Assuming the world is what others
Think, but must question assumptions
For the shock of the instant when
You see that what you had never thought
To question cannot be true and opens
Up possibilities of joy you never hoped for.
A poem is not just
Words to use up at your leisure,
The synesthesia of metaphor,
Where numbers have colors
And sounds have textures.
You can’t predict when She will
Flood you with Her words.
They must be caught as gently as a butterfly
Without breaking its wings
And crafted now, even if
The garbage needs taking out,
Ignoring the persons from Porlock,
Else She will take them back, like dreams.
A poem is not just
Random noise like a tin can clattering
Chaotically down concrete steps,
But must be music for the solo voice,
Languid language does not seize our hearts.
Rhymes squeeze words to make them give off light,
Their multiple meanings generating
Harmonies and counterpoints
Like the linked strings of a harpsichord,
As the Greeks and Judeans danced one-two,
one-two, one-two-three with drums
And pipes and harps and joy and torches
Toward the hieros gamos of the holiest
In the navel of the universe.
A poem is not just
Solemnity or prayers or lectures
On how serious your life should be,
But is playing as the Gods play, since,
Having nothing they must do,
All that they do is play, enticing you
To play with them in the riotous ecstasy
Of their presence within us.
A poem is not just
Optional, as if life were adequate
When living on cold porridge,
But instead gives us the daily
Vitamins and minerals that
Almost invisibly empower us
To live with joy in every moment,
Not just survive. So when you see
A poem, take two. They’re small.
Es, fress, Papa schickt gelt
As we summer in the Poconos.
Mangia. You’re entitled.
IV
At first. Zeus wrote a poem of earth and sky,
When on high the Gods created us
Amidst gales of laughter.
At first there was the Word,
Who precedes Zeus and was Zeus:
That is, in rulership was reason.
Therefore we can make sense of it all.
V
Some poems must be more dense than prose,
Packing layers of meaning into harmonies.
There must be tension: each word a screw
To tighten in the framework.
Yet others can be less dense than air,
Floating like ideas in Plato’s mind,
Balloons filled with colors,
When the Muse just wants to play.
Some poems must be said not smooth but rough,
A diamond still uncivilized, displayed
With no more art than a hurricane.
Some poems must open into hidden space,
Showing the future shape of man,
Patterns, huge or close, that escape the eye.
VI
When I was 14, the Muse (wearing
Her Holy Spirit hat) rescued me and
Ordered me to go find out about truth for myself.
I’ve walked that road less travelled.
Which sometimes became the bonny road
That winds about the ferny brae, and when
She brought me back to where I’d begun
And I knew the place for the first time,
The Queen of Elfhame said to me,
“No lie shall ever be told by thee,
For as I say, so must it be.”
VII
For me the point of poetry’s to tell
The truth, at least, as much as I can find,
For it’s never absolute. There’s always more.
Poetry’s a way of knowing different
From the disprovable hypotheses of science
Or the nondisprovable ones of faith; for these,
Ask not if they’re true, but if they’re good
Every poem’s an experiment
In applied epistemology,
to find out what we think we know,
and why we think we know it.
As mathematicians play with numbers,
And theologians with values,
Poets play with concepts, painting maps
Of possible realities that sometimes
turn out to be as real as imaginary numbers
Or toads in imaginary gardens.
Theories based on beauty create facts.
That’s why mathematicians will not
Believe a proof is true unless it’s elegant.
VIII
Science is the scientific method,
Nothing more, and every guess,
Even when promoted, with stars
On its shoulders, to the rank of theory,
Has merely not yet been disproved.
Newton became a special case
In a universe of relativity.
Pursuing truth’s equivalent to faith,
Requires only that I be openminded.
I have to live with the uncertainty
Of scientific method, never
Settling for the illusory comfort
Of believing there is nothing more to learn.
IX
Yet even truth is not the goal.
What I say about a tree may be
True or false, but it’s not the tree.
As we strolled under the trees
in the moonlight around Tamalpais Valley,
I was telling Gale, “Bach must be the music
That runs the universe, because it is so logical.”
At sixteen I loved logic
Because I could not trust my feelings.
“Everything is logical or illogical,” I said.
“No,” she said. “Not everything is logical.
Trees are neither true nor false;
They simply are, like feelings.
You either believe them or you don’t.”
Could I just accept nonlogical things
As true? My black and white world exploded
Into colors, like Dorothy arriving in Oz.
And yet, later that evening, after she had led me
Into her bedroom and was lying on her bed,
I, not knowing she’d been first seduced
the night before and wanted more,
Not believing how I was feeling
Not believing I could know how she was feeling,
I could not decide whether it was logical
to dare to ask, “May I kiss you?”.
It was years before I learned to trust
My feelings enough to act on them,
But the journey began that evening
When Gale showed me how
Feelings can transcend all hypotheses.
True and false are the broad and narrow roads,
But feelings are the bonny road,
Still winding about the ferny brae
Toward that castle they will never reach.
X
Some may tell you,
If you want a name in the world,
To write with exquisite craftsmanship.
Choose words to shape their feelings.
Tell them what they love to hear about themselves.
Ask them to laugh, cry, feel good, but not to think.
You have the right to earn your fair share
of honor, glory, power, wealth, and fame,
But I say, please,
unless you value truth above all else,
Don’t pretend to be a poet.