Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Writing poems in the 3rd person.

Mostly because the confession, the anecdote, the bit, the sketch, the salient observation, the spectacular moment, and the winning argument seem like political campaigning. Much as the church and the clerisy might un-church and dis-inter themselves to the edges, much as the plaque of psychotherapy has channelized and dredged faith from rivers, much as the faithful demand the vote, much as the officer class has refused to lead; their work is not the craft of community.

These selfish poesy memes are somewhat, sometimes arch, and camp, and beautiful, even as they are not much more than sophistry veneered with sonic trickery. At their best they can be seen as prayers, meditations and contemplative strokes of searchers, mongers and saints.

Micro memoir poems are mostly what I have written. They do not seem much more than Facebook status. Trolling for empathy, crafting the bait of affirmation cum jealousy. What is the affirmation required of the beautiful and the truth. Broken beams. Dropped breasts. Ambulances and Hearses. 

Is it a re-enchantment to write in the voice of a seraph? An archangel? A private dick? Surveillance and the gaze of the voyeur are powerful trophes. What if the interior life of the object is mis-understood by the narrative voice of the poem? Is the voice of the poem received as revelation?

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