PREVIOUS NEXT FIRST It was a sudden field of bloom...
IV
Bosch's The Temptation of St. Anthony (detail, left wing)
It was a sudden field of bloom
that just as soon turned into wings

& folding, spreading, all so quietsome
rose! black velvet, voluble (silently) strings

tying up the earth
in infinite antithesis--

Many unending convolutions
molded Mind to such delusions

while World repeatedly became
what it was never & the same

until I watched the ageless Womb
ever-blooming, turned into a mortal tomb:

Then came a noise--Worse
than had God been thrown down an Abyss

& before the Cry had vanished
I was standing in The Sudden sky

& winced, convinced I would be punished
although ignorant of Why

--Thus I stood in submission
resigned to Whatever doom

when Just As Soon (the premonition
was) the sudden field of bloom
6

^{6} The poem is quick as a flash-back (before he realizes it, our protagonist is back where he started from). In this case, it is a premonition of guilt. There is no punishment; he is accused of no transgression. The 'progression' (of the poem itself) is physical.

I admire most those works which "go for broke" even when they seem to fail (in light of a premature judgment). Sometimes, they herald the spirit that will eventually succeed. Poetry is its tradition. A poem is not merely saying something economically or in any other way, but it is also a language endowed with a reasonable formality. I have no doubt that it is possible to suggest definitions to given words other than those allowed by the dictionary (we do it all the time); and there is always a more apt word: But the poem that repeatedly defies improvement is rare & unique & an instance of greatness. I cannot think of an idea so singular that it could have developed in its creator's mind at any time other than that (specific moment) when history made it inevitably feasible. e.g. We need never fear that the mechanical steps will lag too far behind our spiritual advance.

Accent is the emphasis of my style. Rhyme, and all else, must agree to my own natural accent. Accent is the servant of the meaning and the purpose of the thought (not the other way around). We always get our ideas straightened out in our minds and then we find the words and accent, timing, tone and voice to express them. My poetry is not a formal philosophy (I do not intend that it should propose any social agenda --and I certainly would not call a passing comment a philosophy). I've tried to make my poems homogeneous without falling into the error of the one- dimensional.

Progression: This aspect of art is of great interest to me. Grammar is but an invention to assure a smooth comprehension of the language. What's the value of all such devices? This poem progresses from one concept to the next in a way akin to the stream of consciousness. The mechanisms which bridge them: "turned into," "fold(ing) and spread(ing)," "rose," "silently voluble," "strings," "tying... up" "in infinite" "then" "and before" 'vanished" "I was" "convinced I would be" "So I stood" "when just as soon" "was" --This final one telling us that we can assume the final concept is not merely another "field of bloom" but the identical one as before: The poem can begin again. A complete poem is as perfect as a universe which frames itself (and no portion of existence, no matter how large, can be taken as the whole of existence)[email protected]

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