Two Poems, with Some Words on Poetics

I normally don't care to expound my poems for the reader. But lately, I have been rereading The House That Jack Built, as magnificently edited by the estimable poet and scholar Peter Gizzi.  Spicer's poetics, as outlined in his Vancouver lectures, is sublimely enigmatic, to say the least, but replete with advice for the (young) poet. In revisiting this work, I have been revisiting some of my own work. And since Spicer is something of a muse more than just titularly in this blog (I wonder what his take on poetry blogging would be!), I thought I would post two poems that allude not only to Spicer's poetry and poetics, but also, loosely, to a phenomenon or process which he explores (sometimes contradictorily) in his lectures. 

I wrote these poems during a period in which I struggled with drought and doubt, during a creative warfare with whether poetry need be dictated, arise spontaneously, from outside, or whether poetry necessarily entail labor, concerted effort, from the poet himself.  Both are valid; perhaps some kind of happy medium, if aesthetically possible, is optimal. To me, poetry is not about taking positions, not about settling on any extreme; rather, it is about ambiguities not just of words but of the world. Anyhow, during this time, I felt I was "forcing" the words, that I had nothing heroically good to say. So, in an experiment, I decided simply to address Spicer, not as much to apostrophize him, but as to "take the pressure off" of me as the poem's agent. Even today, when I feel I am pounding my hammer on the anvil unable to generate enough force for sparks, or when I feel my fingers lack the finesse to thread the needle, I address Another. (Capital "A" intended.) Sometimes for a companion, sometimes for a fictional other. Often it works, though it is no formula, for I am certain poetry has no formulas. Are these good poems? I am not to say, but I believe they offer a worthwhile glimpse into a creative process. Without further ado:

Arrangements

Upstairs they are moving

furniture, Jack.

Sounds. Like thunder.

Then I learn it is

thunder. All

is rearranged.

John K., 12/6/2007

Capture Effect

Maybe they don't make radios

like they used to, Jack.

Maybe it's a weak signal,

corroded wires.

Or maybe it's bad reception,

because my dial

is stuck

between two frequencies,

and I hear words

I can speak

and words

I can write

but they mean nothing

to me, Jack,

because I am not

looking for words.

I am looking for

the music of the brazen drum,

for the valves 

of the heart

as they close

to let in blood,

for the moment when 

the body does not know it's dead.

John K., 12/10/2007