Since promising to write 30 days of poems, I have found myself returning to beloved old friends: Pablo Neruda, Czeslaw Milosz and last night Denise Levertov.. I read some of her essays in poetics and some of her poems. Levertov, more the others, taught me how write poetry. I remember meeting her for the first time after winning a poetry contest at UTEP. I got to attend the reception for her after her reading. Her poetics, especially her ideas about organic form, have influenced me .Her attitude of loving life as it occurs and be grateful of the moments with the living God have equally had a profound impact on my life. Drinking her words is like searching a fine wine for the complex layers of flavors.
The Three Fold Attitude of Man
Who will speak for today? Both sets
in their hatred of today. One group,
let us color them
speaks about the past
and the need,
the longing, the pain of returning
to the glories of what was. Though they have never
been there. The past is where they can place
their current disgust
for life as they find it. The other group,
let us spray paint them
with equal hate of what is now, look to the glories
of the future. Theirs is the limited imagination
of what could be that will emerge from the darkness
of their grandfathers and great grandfathers, though
they use ignorant rather than great when looking
at the past. The agree with the Reds in hating
life lived now. They, despite the reality of life,
offer their lives to the Goddess progress. But what of waking
to the morning sun, the present son and life of the moment.
my child running through the fountain
with other children, what of
Meals shared with friends,
and the suffering over losing love?
What of the pain from building muscle,
what of the gentle curves
of my love in the light of twilight?
I smell of her and she of I,
like the love of loves, the song of songs.
What of the world
given us as a gift
to be grateful for,
and our daily bread.
Yes, both red and blue are
in their using
of their imaginations
to avoid life, to negate their and other's lives. Sardines packed
in a tin of ideas, and soaked in an spilled oil of mutual stagnation.
Sad, and ooh, what they miss.