From: wprovinc@zeus.calpoly.edu (William E. Province)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Darwinian Evolution of a Poet (was Re: (Is poetry luxury?))
Date: 9 Nov 92 23:57:56 GMT
Organization: California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo

sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Sheila Herndon) writes:
>In article <1992Nov09.180907.195278@zeus.calpoly.edu> wprovinc@zeus.calpoly.edu (William E. Province) writes:
>>        I write poetry for the same reason that I learned how to speak.
>
>	Why did you learn how to speak?

    To be perfectly honest, I only used this line because it happens 
     to be in one of my (more successful) poems.   Not to say that
    I did not mean what I had stated, but that I intentionally did
    not give the subject the full attention that it deserves.

    But this is not the time for that; this is the time for poetry
     and the construction of the poet through the discourse of his/her
    personal history.  I will address your questions more thoroughly
    in my next post, Sheila.  In the meantime, you may be particularly
    intrigued by the third piece in the series.


    Enough intro., here's the construct :



       Darwinian Evolution of a Poet 
       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    (i) -- Uncertainty Principle

       Einstein could not accept 
       the theories of Quantum Mechanics.
       Said he, to Neils Bohr,
       "God does not play dice 
       with the universe."

       He was going to be a shoemaker,
       (or was that a watchmaker, 
       and does it really matter?)
       but he discovered 
       that we wear shoes 
       to avoid 
       having to look at our feet.

       And what are these feet anyway, 
       if not the creations of some 
       Darwinian Biology 101 experiment 
       gone wild?
       (Heels 
       are prone 
       to festering black callouses,
       and toes writhe
       like sickly maggots
       from the ends
       of a bulbous and bony
       club-like mass.)

       What are these feet, 
       if not some contortion of hind claws 
       that should belong to a rodent,
       while an appendix 
       grows stupidly inside our guts?

       But Einstein 
       could not even tie his shoes,
       so how could we expect him to understand 
       that perhaps,
       our god is not concerned
       with how the dice land?




   (ii) -- tresa's Dog Commits Suicide

       My sister's dog 
       hung from its own leash, its tongue 
       stuck out an odd angle.
       Flies 
       swarmed into its mouth,
       used that death-stiffened tongue 
       as an airport landing pad.
       
       I asked my sister 
       why her dog had jumped through the window
       with the leash still attached,

       but my question 
       had to be deferred;

       her voice
       became a siren wail,
       her eyes stuck
       on the shiny new leash.




  (iii) -- Learning to Speak

       I remained silent
       until my first words formed sentences --
       complete thoughts
       begging to be heard.
       
       (i write poetry ...)

       For how could I ask questions
       with mere single words 
       without a context
       to connect them?

       (... for the same reason...)

       And mother,
       why do we wear shoes, 
       mother?

       (... that i learned...)

       And tresa, 
       did your dog jump through the window
       with a purpose in mind?

       (... how to speak.)


  (iv) -- A Poet is a Moth

       The doctor asked me
       what it felt like
       to wake up
       during surgery,
       and I
       tried to scream
       my reply but,
       his machines 
       forced Poetry 
       into my lungs,
       silenced protest
       with a scalpel,
       cut the diaghragm,
       exposed innocence
       to raw air.

       Was it his intention 
       to create a poet?
       To cut out the larval stage
       like my appendix?

       A poet is not born, but metamorphed --
       subjected to bone-snapping transformations
       in studies of necrology
       or quantum mechanincs  --

       And to witness the creature
       who awoke on the o.r. table, 
       was to witness not a rebirth,
       but a haunting
       of a caterpillar
       turned poet.


(v) -- The Hand Speaks

       This pen grows sticky to my hand
       like an extra thumb 
       placed there by a clumsy god,
       and what do gods know about poetry?

       I have watched 
       while this six-fingered hand
       scurried like an insect,
       leaving its scent
       in a trail of ink;
       and I have wanted
       to take a steak knife,
       plunge it through 
       this malformed creature,
       watch the ink
       turn bright red,
       I have wanted
       to immerse it in Raid,
       watch the ugly thing
       thrash about 
       like a stupid fish,
       I have wanted...

       But instead,
       I cradle it to my chest,
       like a puppy dog
       accidentally kicked,
       it responds
       with an expression
       of release:

       Standing upright,
       my feet provide support,
       and mother, 
       Einstein was wrong, mother,

       and Tresa,
       my dear sister Tresa,
       your dog
       simply did not know.

                        bill province 11/91


  This was my most recently completed work, and yes, the date is 
correct.  My poetry comes through me in long intervals, forced like 
cheese through a grater, or sometimes, (and you'll have to forgive 
the vulgarity of the image), sometimes it comes through like feces
after long periods of constipation.  (And yes, I often think that
the product bears a remarkable resemblance to shit. :^) )

 -- bill
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems