the ArmChair Thoughts

I’m currently reading A Norton Antthology of New Poetry: American Hybrid and I’m loving the calibar of poetry in this anthology. I’m reminded of styles and context, and more importantly, I’m reminded that I’m not a prefessional poet — just a hobbyist and can enhoy poetry as such.

Poet as a profession. There’s a reason I’m an Allen Ginsberg’s poetry fan. Many people hate poetry because they can’t relate to it, they have no idea what the poet is trying to say, to me, academics kill poetry (excuse me on this) and force laymen into distance from poetry.

I’m trying (hopefully I can) to write poetry more like “pop” music that mortals can relate to than “classical” music that takes some music knowing to appreciate.

Here is a recent poetry titled “refract on Life”

IF I could so a thing I would write. If
I could only write I would draft a poem. Like an architect
I would think of blueprints and for a poet
characters. Laying of the blueprints like A, B, E, G
the allies, the scaffolding. I’m thinking
of the balcony, the door, the searching through the empty souls. Laying
the foundation. One character after another, the words
maybe I can pen this or build that — if only I understand. I can
build a house off this blueprint. I hope not to remove
the scaffold too early. I seem not to understand
this architectural jargoning. But
I’m no architect. Let me be a sailor. I might

steer this ship through the turmoil of these lines
and the flood around me. I could bet on this
ship full of idioms and meters and rhymes and anchors
and keel and hull and bilge and bow. Call in
the Captain I lost control. How do I
read all this, all this knobs? But
I’m no sailor. Let me be a painter. Let this

dwarf d ‘Angelo more like Da Vinci. To
my heart desire I would paint you the perfect picture,
the ocean blues, the green trees, the serene skies, a calm life,
brush strokes. knitted life stocks like
oil on canvas. I think of peaceful haikus. Can I paint you a perfect
picture with words? The beauty of idioms, metaphors and
poeticas. I think of Mona Lisa. Is Life smiling at me or frowning —
none do I care. Is this painting abstract or impressionist.
can’t tell. But
I’m no painter. Let me be a doctor. Pass me

the stethoscope. I need to re-examine my life
to dissect and re-stitch. Pass me the knife maybe I
can heal life. I’m I loosing life?
“Please watch the monitor”, We can’t afford
to loose life now. I’m thinking it’s too
sick for a surgery. How would I deal
with a bypass though …Beep, beeep, beeeeep…
“I think we lost him.” Don’t judge me. But
I’m no doctor. Let me be an economist. Numbers

and alphas let’s research them. I might
try the perfect econometrics that match these lines
to paper. Let’s graph childhood experience on the x-axis
environmental situation on the y-axis. It’s an
equilibrium of me. I can’t graph I’d go bar charts
through the stages of my life
the     [2]                                       Bar key: []years
supply of   [6]
life is not   [8]
meeting my demand   [14]
of life. I am   [18]
a prodcut   [20]
of    [21]
I.     [22]
I’m losing these graphs. Let me think in numbers
for DL -> my life’s demand; SL -> my life’s supply
for n -> number of years
for k -> Life’s constant
DL = SL = DL +SL = 0
(DL+SL)^n=∑_(k=0)^n▒〖(n¦k) 〖DL〗^k 〖SL〗^(n-k) 〗

I’m lost. But
I’m no Economist. And

if I could do a thing. I would write
a Poem. A poem that tells my life
in analogies of professions
it’s joys and toils, in numbers and words.
But I can’t.

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Tagged: life, poetry, profession