Begin the begin

Over the past year I became fascinated by the work of poet Wallace Stevens. While I have read his contemporaries, such as T.S. Eliot, I had not read Stevens before this.

I am moved by his ability to communicate, to create feelings and stir emotions through descriptive imagery. Stevens' use of descriptive nouns, adjectives and adverbs as well as active verbs shows innovation. His skill at setting scenes is comparable to Eliot's. The reader can feel the tension, the pain, the regret or the beauty in each poem. He was a forerunner of Ginsberg and apparently influenced him greatly, as Ginsberg's street scenes show, though their styles are so different.

I had an interesting conversation with a couple of friends the other afternoon. We were discussing appearances. Primarily the discussion centered around people who appear to live perfect lives but who's real lives are hidden behind closed doors, either of the physical kind or of the metal kind. This lead me to thinking and that led me to writing.

The following poem is yet untitled. It is a study of one such couple. A look inside and out using a style based on Stevens.



A ring of keys lies on the table top dropped beside
the checkbook, bills, a laptop, the last apple
a creaking hinge, a sigh

An engine roars to a stop, vacuum ,
Odors waft toward the door, diner on the table
a pleasure now transformed into duty, obligation

Where do the obstacles come from
cold looks feed the soul a poor diet
The brief rat-a-tat of voices,
followed by silence served with emptiness

Evenings spent in separate rooms the tv a mediator
Sporadic exchanges echo down the hall

The phone rings, a caller, the doorbell, a visitor
A semblance of normalcy, conversation,
Hang up, say goodbye, close the door
Alone the clock ticks, it becomes a jailor
What now?

The distance is neither divided by rivers or mountains
But by a wad of blankets and a well placed pillow
a desert or deserted?
For lack of water a seed does not grow.

Sudden outbursts on an afternoon,
Squabbling birds are hushed and take flight
While others remain,
does the struggle sustain them

Outside the world moves and breaths, lives lived
Waiting . . .