Myth of Arrival

Since I started blogging in August of 2005 (so long ago) I have read countless posts arguing about what "the new" form of poetry shall be in the American art scene. This is where we apparently are putting our energies; not writing poetry but attempting to second-guess what will be new. We are in love with Ezra Pound's maxim, "Make it new," but once we have something new, instead of perfecting it, instead of mastering it, we drop it and hurry off to something else. While I am not calling for us to champion one style of poetry over another, ¹ I am calling for brilliance, discipline, consistency. After all, isn't all poetry about ecstasy? So who are you to tell us one form is not better than another? It's all praise, and it's all right. Indeed.

Today I am looking for a story. You see, I like stories. Some might call it narrative, I call it interesting. Fragmentation has its place, but it is also an unholy mess at times, since it seems to be the plaything of those suffering from attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). For example, for the classical music lovers out there, give me Bach's Fugue in D minor over Debussy's La Mer, Rossini's L'italiana en Algeria over Strauss' Salome, any day. Or, for those who that makes no sense to, I'll take Bob Dylan over Brian Eno. Narrative, dramatic, lyrical versus nebulous, ambient, obscure. It is my own personal quirk, but still, I like to see where I am going.

With that in mind, I think I am going to start a sonnet sequence. I want adventure and I want it in the old Spencerian style: abab bcbc cdcd ee. What, you ask, is a sonnet sequence? Ripping a page (yes, ripping) from my Benét's here is a quick definition:

Sonnet Sequence. A collection of sonnets in which there is a discernible, if only vaguely, narrative or psychological development. The effect is like stanzas in a long poem, but each sonnet retains its own force and independence. In Petrarch's Rime (Verses), the [groundbreaker] of most European and English sequences, the sonnets … are the chief vehicles of the story of the poet's love for Laura. Outstanding examples in English include Sidney's Astrophel and Stella, Spencer's Amoretti (1595), and the Dark Lady sonnets of Shakespeare.²

Now we need someone to write about. A character worthy of a bel canto, that is, a beautiful song. Byron began his epic poem Don Juan with the words: I want a hero, an uncommon want,/ when every year and month sends forth a new one. We seem to be in a similar age. Heroic figures are all around us and yet how many inspire us to do anything? Besides Ghandi and Billie Holiday, I mean?

One of the things you might or might not know about me is that I am shark crazy. Seriously, where some might look and see a fish, I see beauty. Where some might hear the theme song of Jaws I hear the swimming strokes of gods. I love sharks and I think that is where we shall start. With a shark. Not just any shark, either. We shall start with Kane'ae; the little silver-red shark that transformed herself into a human in order to experience the joys of dancing. Kane'ae the Dancer. Kane'ae the Hunter. Kane-ae in our modern age.

1. I cannot think of a better Artistic Manifesto or a better way of summing up the "debate" over which poetic forms we should or should not use than with the Jalal-e-Din Rumi story of Moses and the Shepherd. In it, Moses comes upon a man praying in a way he finds offensive and tells him off. The shepherd repented and tore his clothes and sighed and wandered into the desert. A sudden revelation came then to Moses. God's voice: "You have separated me from one of my own. Did you come as a Prophet to unite, or to sever? I have given each being a separate and unique way of seeing and knowing and saying that knowledge. What seems wrong for you is right for him. What is poisonous to one is honey to someone else. Purity and impurity, sloth and diligence in worship, these mean nothing to me. I am apart from all that. Ways of worshipping are not to be ranked as better or worse than one another. Hindus do Hindu things. the Dravidian Muslims in India do what they do. It's all praise, and it's all right. It's not me that's glorified in acts of worship. It's the worshipers! I don't hear the words they say. I look inside at the humility. That broken-open lowliness is the reality, not the language! Forget phraseology. I want burning, burning. from: Barks, Coleman (ed.) The Essential Rumi San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco (1995) page, 166. [back]
2. Benét's reader's encyclopedia. New York: Harper & Row (1987) page 916. [back]

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 11th, 2006 at 11:22 am and is filed under Forms, Original Poetry, Writing Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.