Thursday, September 06, 2018
Herman Melville began Moby Dick with, "Call me Ishmael."
By: Donovan Baldwin
Herman Melville began Moby Dick with, "Call me Ishmael." Not to be outdone, I often begin some of my comments with, "I call myself a poet."
I have earned my "creds" as they say. Never claimed to be a "good" poet, but I do write stuff that others have recognized as, and acknowledged to be, poetry. Even had a few of my poems published back when paper was king.
You might say, BC = Before Computers. The dark ages of our modern era.
Anyway, in addition to having written poems and articles which others may or may not see, or have seen; a myriad of thoughts and images, snippets of originality, inspired by damn near anything (once wrote a poem about a tuna sandwich), flow through my mind, often aching to come out as something on paper or computer screen.
Still, with all that to work with, ninety percent of what is running through my scattered mind doesn't find any outlet, and runs off into the woods of my thoughts, and, although I may hear some laughter or squeals or giggles, or sobbing, from the departed ideas somewhere off in the woods, I am left to wonder who or what those strange creatures were ... beautiful and exciting, gloomy and brooding, bland and insufficient to maintain existence.
I was reading Hazlitt (William) last night and, in one of his beautifully crafted essays which rolls off the tongue of my mind, once one becomes an artist, it's all about art. It's in everything they see and think about.
Poets are like that too, I believe. And, like the artist, you never see some of their/our best work... sometimes only practice pieces... set down to keep our hand in.
Beware of brooding poets but remain calm. The gloom you often see upon them has nothing to do with you, but, with the creatures romping through their minds,disappearing into darkness and forgotten before they can leave a trace of their ephemeral existence.
Herman Melville began Moby Dick with, "Call me Ishmael." Not to be outdone, I often begin some of my comments with, "I call myself a poet."
I have earned my "creds" as they say. Never claimed to be a "good" poet, but I do write stuff that others have recognized as, and acknowledged to be, poetry. Even had a few of my poems published back when paper was king.
You might say, BC = Before Computers. The dark ages of our modern era.
Anyway, in addition to having written poems and articles which others may or may not see, or have seen; a myriad of thoughts and images, snippets of originality, inspired by damn near anything (once wrote a poem about a tuna sandwich), flow through my mind, often aching to come out as something on paper or computer screen.
Still, with all that to work with, ninety percent of what is running through my scattered mind doesn't find any outlet, and runs off into the woods of my thoughts, and, although I may hear some laughter or squeals or giggles, or sobbing, from the departed ideas somewhere off in the woods, I am left to wonder who or what those strange creatures were ... beautiful and exciting, gloomy and brooding, bland and insufficient to maintain existence.
I was reading Hazlitt (William) last night and, in one of his beautifully crafted essays which rolls off the tongue of my mind, once one becomes an artist, it's all about art. It's in everything they see and think about.
Poets are like that too, I believe. And, like the artist, you never see some of their/our best work... sometimes only practice pieces... set down to keep our hand in.
Beware of brooding poets but remain calm. The gloom you often see upon them has nothing to do with you, but, with the creatures romping through their minds,disappearing into darkness and forgotten before they can leave a trace of their ephemeral existence.
Labels: donovan baldwin, Herman Melville, ideas for poems, Moby Dick, poem, poetry, William Hazlitt
Wednesday, September 05, 2018
The Curse of the Poet
By: Donovan Baldwin
In an essay on the pleasure of painting, William Hazlitt says, "The painter not only takes a delight in nature, he has a new and exquisite source of pleasure opened to him in the study and contemplation of works of art..." and goes on to give an example of a painter spending a pleasant time contemplating not only art, but, life, nature, and the world about.
Much the same happens to the poet.
While each of us so afflicted react in our own particular and special way, I feel fairly sure that we are much the same in that we never look again at even the smallest piece of trash or the most spectacular display of nature the same way.
Commonplace things lose their commonality and, instead become causes of cantos. Wondering and wandering becomes a way of life with the goal being the coming of the words which, like the statue within the stone, revealed by the blows of the sculptor, will be pulled forth into this world and made to represent more than what the dictionary ever intended.
The poet is condemned to evermore find a poem in everything, much to the dismay and dismissal of most of the rest of the world.
In an essay on the pleasure of painting, William Hazlitt says, "The painter not only takes a delight in nature, he has a new and exquisite source of pleasure opened to him in the study and contemplation of works of art..." and goes on to give an example of a painter spending a pleasant time contemplating not only art, but, life, nature, and the world about.
Much the same happens to the poet.
While each of us so afflicted react in our own particular and special way, I feel fairly sure that we are much the same in that we never look again at even the smallest piece of trash or the most spectacular display of nature the same way.
Commonplace things lose their commonality and, instead become causes of cantos. Wondering and wandering becomes a way of life with the goal being the coming of the words which, like the statue within the stone, revealed by the blows of the sculptor, will be pulled forth into this world and made to represent more than what the dictionary ever intended.
The poet is condemned to evermore find a poem in everything, much to the dismay and dismissal of most of the rest of the world.
Labels: art, artist, donovan baldwin, poem, poet, William Hazlitt
