"He never described himself as a poet or his work as poetry. The fact that the lines do not come to the edge of the page is no guarantee. Poetry is a verdict, not an occupation. He hated to argue about the techniques of verse. The poem is a dirty, bloody, burning thing that has to be grabbed first with bare hands. Once the fire celebrated Light, the dirt Humility, the blood Sacrifice. Now the poets are professional fire-eaters, freelancing at any carnival. The fire goes down easily and honors no one in particular.

"Once, for awhile, he seemed to serve something other than himself. Those were the only poems he ever wrote."

Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game

I met Chris Martin through my work with kids with autism. He is a poet with a deep contemplative streak who has published several books. Here is a vertical poem he shared with me.

Rising
 
 
over time
 
vertiginous
 
this timid
 
middling life
 
and no less
 
miraculous
 
over time
 
me and you
 
meandering
 
and more dear
 
or more idea
 
than people
 
I want to plead
 
want to be
 
plea and flue
 
the hole the fire
 
leaps through
 
over time
 
under cover
 
of brick walled
 
darknesses
 
the fire feeds
 
on air to meet
 
whatever doesn’t
 
groan and cleave
 
against this cold
 
and whitest winter
 
 
 
- Chris Martin

You can get to know him better through this website:

https://onbeing.org/author/chris-martin/
 

there are not many songs
there is only one song

the animals lope to it
the fish swim to it
the sun circles to it
the stars rise
the snow falls
the grass grows

there is no end to the song and no beginning
the singer may die
but the song is forever

truth is the name of the song
and the song is truth.

-- Robert Lax

WHEN
I WALK
 

When
I walk
I pick
things
up

I pick
things
up

I pick
things
up

When
I walk
I pick
things
up

I pick
things
up
 
to
see.


When
I walk
things
pick
me
up

Things
pick
me
up

Things
pick
me
up


When
I walk
Things
pick
me
up
 
Things
pick me
up
 
to see.

8/19

The world
seems far
away

The world
seems far
away

The world
seems far
away
today.

The world
seems ill
at ease

The world
feels ill
at ease.

The world
seems ill.

As I walk
home
alone
today

As I'm
walking
home
alone

The world
seems far
away

The world
seems ill
at ease

The world
seems far
away

today.

7/29/19

LOVE
LOVE

Love
Love

Shall I
tell you
 
a secret

Shall I
tell you
a secret

My love?

Love
Love

Love is
the secret

Love is
the secret

My love.




DJW 5/14/19

Love and Light
Love and Light

the circle burns
all day, all night.

2/15

On Angels

All was taken away from you:  white dresses,
wings, even existence.
Yet I believe in you, messengers.

There, where the world is turned inside out,
a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts,
you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seams.

Short is your stay here:
now and then at a matinal hour, if the sky is clear
in a melody repeated by a bird,
or in the smell of apples at the close of day
when the light makes the orchards magic.

They say somebody has invented you
but to me this does not sound convincing
for humans invented themselves as well.

The voice -- no doubt it is a valid proof,
as it can belong only to radiant creatures
weightless and winged (after all, why not?}
girdled with the lightning.

I have heard that voice many a time when asleep
and, what is strange, I understood more or less
an order or an appeal in an unearthly tongue.

day draws near
another one
do what you can

Czeslaw Millosz,   1911 - 2004

I've been reading the biography of my favorite poet, Robert Lax, called Pure Act, by Michael N. McGregor. Beautiful story of a beautiful contemplative poet. This is a quote from Lax that I read last night: "This just occurred to me: my idea of a good contemplative is something more like a cow than it is like a dancing master." Ha!

If a tree falls in the forest
and there is no poet to notice it
is it still a poem?


I've never thought of poetry as something someone just makes up and writes down. No more than love is just an emotion. The reason we feel love is that we are made of it and surrounded by it. The reason we write poetry is that we are made of it and surrounded by it. The world itself is composed of poetry. We take note of it or not, write it down or not, but we don't invent it.

The joy of reading a great poem is in the recognition of our own world, isn't it?

Or so it seems to me.


IT GOES WITHOUT
 
It goes without saying,
there is poetry
everywhere you look.
 
But who, these days
will look?
It goes without saying.
 
 
 
Doug Westendorp
7/16