POETRY DOCTORTM
"Working the World of Words."
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POETRY DOCTORTM "Working the World of Words."
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POETRY DOCTORtm So what's with that? I'm a lifelong
poet. Having started writing poetry at the age of fourteen, I've put in
forty-six years now. Perhaps the greatest thing I've gained from poetry is a
path to wellness. Who would have thought that a Ph.D. in poetry would work as
well or better than an M.D.? As surely as there are more things in
heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy, I've met so many amazing
people through my poetry. If one is receptive, such encounters can redirect one's life. My own greatest moments of happiness and wellness have come in other
lands. As a visiting poet in Who can explain these little miracles
which make life special? Poets can. I delight in trying. Hence, Poetry Doctor,
which the little devil in me wants to own as property (trade marked). But let
the ego go (doesn't that look like poetry? "ego go ego-a-go-go!" That's
got rhythm!) Sure, I love hugs, but if you can read into this web page, gifted
to me by some Rogue Scholars, perhaps you can love your art and your life
a bit more, as I do. I have studied the literature, the art of
poetry, even the business of writing, and the best thing I can suggest to you is
to accept the life of a poet with all its perks and yes, even with the pain. A
poet, just about by definition, must feel some pain. It's comes with being
observant of the human condition. In fact, studies (for example: http://www.molbio.princeton.edu/courses/mb427/2000/projects/0002/index3.html)
often note that poets are far more frequently depressed than any other writers
and certainly members of the general public. Could those same people who are
gifted with keen powers of observation, who are more inclined to deeper insights,
be condemned to suffer because of those very talents? An old
philosopher and friend of mine often says, "If you're not outraged, you're
not paying attention." Poets, not just attentive, but
hyper-attentive to their world, could be duly upset by the injustices, the
inequities, the imbalances witnessed every day. My prescription for the poet,
however, is to be as expansive as Walt Whitman:"Do I contradict myself? Very
well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudeds.)"
Controversial as he was in his time, he and all poets have every reason to live
long and prosper. Yes, "martyr" contains"art" but
one need not sacrifice oneself to accomplish great things in poetry. The mere
observation, the reflection of life back to those who may have missed some
cogent detail; that should be enough to prevent any poet from being overwhelmed
by what is observed. Mirrors still make magic. If poets hold a mirror to the
world, that is more than enough to justify their life and poetry. Indeed, it can be better than that. Poets
can, more often, fine tune the lens through which we see. That is where the real
art, and even the healing comes into play. Poets have the ability to make even
the ordinary seem extraordinary. Just as metaphor is a transformation
accomplished in words, poetry transforms what it observes; it makes the
connections that others, "non-poets, " may fail to see. My own poetry,
in
placing a frame around even a dark moment redirects the actual, the factual,
back to others as art. While journalists are trained to be
observers through whom an undistorted message passes, the poet is that wonderful
twister, distorter, filter of life. It is the poet's ability to not just
channel energy but alter and enhance it that constitutes an individual style and
the power of the poetry. There is an archetype in literature of an encounter
with a mysterious stranger who redirects our life. The best of poetry and poets
has that effect.
Granted, I am asking a lot. Much of poetry, having been written under the
impression that another day requires another poem, is merely a language exercise,
a practice for the real thing, but with the machine thus kept well
oiled and ready, poets are themselves ready and able to render real art from
their observation of reality. That's what has happened, happily and healthily,
for me in my many years pursuing the muse.
Occasionally, people in my own life, each with an agenda of his or her
own, have uttered what could have been damaging remarks. There was the woman,
for instance, who told me"All your poetry comes from negativity." At first
I was wounded by her pronouncement, as much as anything because it was, if not
categorically, at least often true. Much of my poetry has come from negativity.
Who hasn't suffered? Who hasn't suffered when observing the suffering of
others? Yet, as surely as"my enemy is my teacher, " I came to accept her
comment as another kind of compliment. Imagine! I had turned negativity into
poetry! Wow! I could have turned it into"outrage, " as my aging philosopher
friend has done, but he's not happy. I could have turned negativity into
bullets and become a killer. Instead, I had made poetry. A wonderful poet, X. J.
Kennedy, once said I had"the power to smash complacency, " and with that,
he
included a poem of mine in his widely-used anthology Introduction to Poetry.
The poem, "Once in a While a Protest Poem, " (reproduced below) chastised
those who ignored the starvation and suffering of others. It described a
starving mother and infant in What comes from such a transformation?
Well, as a little kid (as I am, still, in my heart) who shouted"Mommy,
watch
me!" I got the attention I sought. However, would it be wrong to think some
student assigned to read poetry from a very heavy literature anthology, would
actually stop for a moment to reflect on how the suffering of others simply
continues. But perhaps those same readers, if only
for a moment, do appreciate the fact that they aren't starving? Perhaps a tiny
cry does go up inside that they should do more to stop the suffering. Any effect
is, as the theme of the poem goes, better than affect. Poetry may not heal the
world, it may be marvelously innocuous, but even that is so far superior to the
poisons often poured into us. There is a
Hebrew notion (not to mention a magazine) of"tikun"--that which can heal
the world. The Chinese express energy as"chi." The religious generally
refer the"spirit." What more amazing grace can one receive than poetry itself,
descended from a tradition of prayer? No wonder I can finish my thoughts
feeling happy. If I were to recommend a path, a profession, even just a hobby,
it would have to be poetry. Can't make a living at it but you sure can have
fun! In the process, you could heal the world! For
more on"The Healing Power of Writing, " go to http://www.writersunlimited.org/TIPhealing.htm To
see a list of or purchase books by David B. Axelrod go to http://www.writersunlimited.org/LIPS.htm A
SAMPLER OF POEMS by
David B. Axelrod WATCHING
YOU watching
you, your restless breaths, your high-boned face, your
nakedness defined
in blue-gray light
of quarter moon. You
sighed and turned and still I stared, the
thick curled knot of
jet-black hair tied
up to bare a soft, strong neck, supple shoulders, the
outline of
small breasts. Until
you turned again toward me, eyes
flickering in
half-surprise. I
spent till sunrise watching you, protector
of your dreams
and sighs. THE
VANDAL He
creeps to the edge of the hedges on
the darkest night, his beebee gun beneath
a surplus army jacket. This
is where he went to school. He's
older now and knows the rules and
how to break them. Raising the
polished butt beside his chin he
fires, pointing at the room where
he was kept--one quick report
of well-pumped air-- and
runs for it. The pellet punctures 3/8ths inch glass, a
burst of silver petals through the
other side, one violent glass flower
for the teacher.
THE
SLAUGHTER Rain's
gentle revolver riddles our sleep. Wet tongue of lightening, dark growl of thunder, bullets
through our dreams. A hand to find a crease of flesh, unconscious fingers probing, a
skinning that starts with a slit. And
no one minds the trembling limbs as
the hide is peeled. Some are born for
love, others for the slaughter. Penitent
rain. Cleansing rain. Sorry
rain. Satiating rain. All
these things we do that lovers do: begging you, licking you, bathed
in tears, chilling fears. Wake with a rapping at the window, an
arm in a clinch around you. Tonight
there'll be no recriminations. Only
the soft spatter of water as
the flesh is trimmed from the bone.
ONCE IN A WHILE A PROTEST POEM Over and over again the papers print the dried out tit of an African woman holding her starving child. Over and over, cropping it each time to one prominent, withered tit, the feeble infant face. Over and over to toughen us, teach us to ignore the foam turned dusty powder on the infant's lips, the mother's sunken face (is cropped) and filthy dress. The tit remains; the tit held out for everyone to see, reminding us only that we are not so hungry ogling the tit, admiring it and in our living rooms, making it a symbol of starving millions; our sympathy as real as silicone.
HEROICS (For
a 16-year-old amputee.) After
he'd stolen fire the
Gods chained him to
a rock, tore him apart. And
Roddy, after he'd made his leap toward light, touched the high voltage transformer, his
hands, his mother explained "Were
like this." She made two welded
fists, "Two chunks of
charcoal, and his arms . . . " They
had to cut them off. A
month they kept him chained in sleep until, still on a respirator, he
awoke. "Why can't they put them back?" he asked. The day nurse pecked at the charred skin where his coat and shirt burned off inside the fence where no one dared to help him. "At this point, " his mother says, "it hasn't gotten any
easier." And the Gods--it's never mentioned whether once they bound him to the rock, once the bird beak began, they simply left or stayed to watch him.
FOR
GAIL, WHO CALLED HERSELF
"CHARLIE" You
say you are an exotic dancer, brag how good you are, rubbing
yourself against the
wooden rails that separate your
bright spot of stage from
the small Formica tabletops
where guys mostly
in their twenties chug
beers and cheer you on. "I
tease them, let them tuck
5's and 10's in my G-string.
If I go bottom- less,
I get them good and
hot. That's when I
really get a lot. I
drive them wild;" your
shoulders stiffening as
you talk, your jaw thrust
forward like an angry
child. "Come down and
watch me." Your eyes dance
in a sideward glance; the
open buttons of your baggy
shirt an invitation. And
now there is no chance to see you on the circuit, your
hips pumping frustration into
every bastard in
the bar. Your long brown
hair, that whipped you as you whirled, is
stilled. Your try- to-catch-me
eyes are closed; your half-smile, a
tight-lipped, eternal grimace.
OD-ed at 21. How
far away from everyone you've
danced, as if death alone
could be exotic.
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