"about poetry & yr poetry ... i'm curious what "real poets" you read ... yr influences ... where yr sense of what poetry is/must be/should be comes from ... whose (if any) stuff makes you want to write yr own."
my initial reaction is that this would be a short private conversation.
no -- it was what? why? what sort of questions are these? not a belligerent asking but a what in the world? who cares and what does it matter?
And then, that it would be a short private conversation and that i had wanted to know the same sorts of things of the asker for some time, as i view the asker as much more a writer and poet (whatever that is) than am i ... and have often wished that i knew where the asker finds or gets or senses whatever it is that leads to those writings, wishing that i could write like that ...
And these questions have been there, coming to mind at the most unusual times though perhaps anytime one is thinking about things like this -- so irrelevant in the scheme of things, so ethereal, so self centered as to seem almost absurd -- perhaps any time one of them came to mind it would strike me as unusual.
And then i thought ... maybe this is an exercise for me to figure out what it is, after all ... i often wonder at why i feel a need to write and have never come up with any satisfactory answer, not any answer at all. That you or he or another writes without some impulse to do so ... can it be?
There is some reason but i don't know what it is. I have gone through long periods of much writing. Perhaps it spills out in the form it does because correct grammar and sentence structure is not so important; perhaps because as much as I would like to think I could write I know or suspect that I really can't; that novel lurking in the background is beyond my meager skill set ...
It is not like eating or drinking or feeding the cats or watering the garden ... there is no necessity, there is no untoward consequence to follow ... or is there? I've too had similar periods where painting or collages or music was the means of expression, and then nothing, silent dark blandness descends and there is nothing to do but ... nothing.
So i will take this as an exercise and while having no illusions as to my abilities and lacks, perhaps thinking in a more organized way about the whys and the hows will lead to some understanding.
But why does it matter if I or you or anyone else understands?
It doesn't, but then one need not have dogs and cats and gardens and cameras and paints as any matter of necessity either and still we do.
Perhaps if I was a poet I could answer these questions ... maybe if I can answer them i will become a poet or even a writer.
someone thinks i can sometimes write something yhat qualifies as poetry - i put the five he selected over here for anyone who wants to look.
Bodies called to mind are steeped in salt
4 hours ago